


it’s a long way forward (so trust in me)

by suzukiblu



Series: I'll give them shelter like you've done for me [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jaskier, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fuck Or Suffer Unspecified Health Consequences, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nesting, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Geralt is not making a nest. Jaskier has noticed this. Geralt is in fact drinking a rather foul-smelling potion that sours the sweetness of his scent and muffles its otherwise obvious meaning.“Does that stop heat?” Jaskier asks curiously, absentmindedly tuning his lute as he speaks. He hadn’t thought anything could, but, well . . . witchers and their potions.“No,” Geralt says darkly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Mentioned Geralt/Yennefer
Series: I'll give them shelter like you've done for me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630747
Comments: 350
Kudos: 6199
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set some nebulous time between episode five and episode six. I . . . look, I _really needed_ to fic for this show, it was _very important_ that I fic for this show. 
> 
> Yes I literally watched The Witcher just so I could write Jaskier/Geralt smut, SORRY NOT SORRY. And I went with A/B/O smut because I know what I’m about, son.

Geralt is not making a nest. Jaskier has noticed this. Geralt is in fact drinking a rather foul-smelling potion that sours the sweetness of his scent and muffles its otherwise obvious meaning. 

“Does that stop heat?” Jaskier asks curiously, absentmindedly tuning his lute as he speaks. He hadn’t thought anything could, but, well . . . witchers and their potions. 

“No,” Geralt says darkly. Jaskier infers from this extremely uninformative response that the only effect of the potion, therefore, is to make Geralt smell like something rotten. Which is one way to deal with heat, he supposes, except he can’t imagine it helping any _other_ symptoms of it. Not that he has first-hand experience with any of those, as an alpha, but everyone knows what kind of nonsense omegas have to go through. 

He’s never actually been around for one of Geralt’s heats before. This is all a bit novel. 

Geralt appears to be the sort to suffer through his heats, unfortunately, as opposed to, oh, the sort to ask for help? It’s not as if Jaskier’s doing anything particularly important, after all. Then again, picturing Geralt asking for much of anything is a bit off, much less picturing him asking for _that_. 

Still. 

He wasn’t actually sure Geralt _had_ heats, before he smelled his pheromones changing today on the road. It doesn’t really make sense that he would—witchers are infertile, aren’t they?—but what does Jaskier know, anyway. He’s not exactly an expert, and Geralt isn’t exactly forthcoming. 

He could ask, he supposes, but he doubts he’d get an answer. 

Geralt puts away his empty potion bottle, waits a few minutes as his scent grows less and less like pre-heat and more and more unpleasant, and then they get back to their travelling without further delay. There’s supposed to be a village somewhere around here, allegedly with monster problems, and Geralt is apparently perfectly willing to spend his pre-heat monster-hunting instead of, say, nesting. Jaskier cannot _imagine_ that being pleasant, but when is Geralt’s job ever? And the man knows his own limitations, obviously. 

Jaskier still thinks this whole thing would go a lot smoother if the other would just come down off Roach and sit on his knot for a few hours, but that is apparently too logical a course of action for a witcher to take. 

They find the town. They talk to the people. The monster is nothing special; Jaskier does not expect to write a great ballad off the back of the eighth time he watches Geralt slay the same breed of beast. Still, one never knows where inspiration might strike, and the town is clearly in need—enough so that they more than welcome the sight of Geralt, and not even particularly grudgingly. They seem to find his drugged scent unpleasant, but so does Jaskier so he hardly blames them. Usually Geralt smells rather nice, in his opinion, and the other's heat scent was frankly _mouthwatering_ before he chugged that potion. 

That's neither here nor there, of course. 

Jaskier never pretended to be clever about who he thought smelled mouthwatering. Usually it’s someone he shouldn’t even be sniffing at, as Geralt’s sour-smelling potion has very firmly reminded him. 

Still. He _could_ be helping the other right now, and who knows why Geralt isn’t asking for it. Jaskier’s certainly cheaper than a whore. 

. . . he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. 

They head out into the woods, Geralt in silence and Jaskier humming along to a new melody he’s trying to coax out of his lute. He’d talk, usually, but he figures Geralt’s suffering enough and the man clearly can only stand so much communication in a day. Jaskier likes to get in early, before anyone else has time to wear him down, but they had to talk to a _lot_ of townspeople to narrow down what sort of beast to expect. 

Geralt doesn’t like to be taken by surprise, obviously. Jaskier can more than see his point. 

It's not much of a fight, in the end. Jaskier barely stops fiddling with his lute before Geralt's lopping the beast's head off with brutal efficiency. Jaskier doesn't even get his shoes particularly dirty. 

" _That's_ going to take some embellishing," he muses. 

"Jaskier," Geralt rasps, standing over the beast's body and staring at him with pitch-black eyes. 

"Yes?" Jaskier says, blinking back at him. 

Geralt . . . pauses, and says nothing. His expression is strained. Jaskier wonders how close his heat is now; he can't smell him well enough to tell, under the potions and blood. Probably Geralt would not appreciate knowing he's wondering about that, though. 

"We should head back," Jaskier says, because however close Geralt's heat is, it can't be long now, and simple as that fight was, he doesn't look his best. 

Also, best to get paid as efficiently as possible. That's usually the wisest course of action. 

"Hn." Geralt turns his head away, the black fading out of his eyes. He starts walking back to Roach. Jaskier follows, of course. He strums a little tune, but stops when he notices how tight it makes Geralt's shoulders. Normally he'd probably ignore that, if he even noticed, but normally he's a bit less . . . attentive-feeling. 

Normally Geralt doesn't need taken care of like he's about to need, of course. But it's fine; they'll get paid, and Geralt can go spend his heat in the whorehouse, and Jaskier can spend it writing a new song, perhaps, or earning some extra coin at the bar. 

Problem: turns out there's no whorehouse in town. 

"What, really?" Jaskier asks incredulously. "What do your unmated people do for their cycles?" 

"There are no unmated people out here," the mayor says, which simply _can't_ be right. "We don't need the immorality of whorehouses in our town." 

"Oh, wow," Jaskier says. Geralt's hands fist by his sides. "Wow, you just said that out loud and everything. So what if somebody gets sick? Or dies? Nobody around to handle that?" 

"No," the mayor lies, which Jaskier translates to mean "nobody willing to lay with a witcher". 

"Hmmmm," he says. "Well, that's an issue." 

"Jaskier," Geralt says through his teeth. 

"Yes?" Jaskier looks to him. Geralt doesn't speak, though, which is unhelpful. He looks very, very unhappy, though. 

He still smells sour, which is probably not helping with this problem. Besides that, it's a small town, and never mind that the people here were willing enough to hire Geralt to kill their monster; they're clearly not willing to do him this particular favor, and there's not enough population to expect to find an outlier. 

"Hm," Jaskier says. "Well—where's the inn?" 

"No inn," the mayor says. Jaskier stares at him. Alright, well . . . that's not helpful. Geralt _cannot_ spend his heat in the woods. Jaskier is simply not going to allow it. The man's already miserable enough. 

"Well, does anyone have a room we can rent?" Jaskier asks. 

"No," the mayor says. "But the woodsman's family is all dead by the beast. You can stay in their cottage." 

"That would be lovely, thank you," Jaskier says. Well . . . it's still out in the woods, but a cottage is a definite improvement over a campsite, at least. "Could you point us to it?" 

The mayor shows them the way. Geralt is dead silent the entire trip, his fists clenched tight around Roach's reins. Jaskier does the talking, as usual. The woodsman's cottage _is_ lovely, actually, which is . . . a bit unfortunate. It's a small cottage, only one room, and Jaskier attempts not to notice any of the little signs of abandoned life in it. He doesn't know where the beast attacked the family, but it clearly wasn't here. It looks as if someone's just stepped out for a moment. 

Geralt definitely notices that. Jaskier is fairly certain the man will never admit it, though. 

"Won't this make a nice nest!" he says brightly, pretending that the family _has_ in fact just stepped out and will be back in the morning. He's told worse lies. 

"We've a healer in town. She'll be ready," the mayor says, eyeing him grimly. Jaskier realizes the man thinks Geralt is going to _hurt_ him, which . . . might actually be a concern, come to think of it. Hm. 

Well, faint heart ne'er won fair maid. Or helped out a suffering witcher, either. 

"We'll keep that in mind, thank you!" Jaskier says in the same bright tone, and the mayor huffs and eyes him for another long moment, but leaves them there. "Wasn't he just a bucket of sunshine. Perhaps I should've played a few more songs of your heroism." 

Geralt growls. It's not a very omega-like sound, but it is a very Geralt one. 

"I'm just saying, it couldn't have hurt," Jaskier says, bustling around the place in search of spare bedding. He can't bring Geralt much, but it's the decent thing to do and all. Can't expect any self-respecting omega to build a nest with the contents of one bed. 

"What are you doing," Geralt says as Jaskier layers a few quilts he found in a trunk on the bed. It doesn't really sound like a question, but Jaskier answers anyway. 

"Getting you something to nest with, obviously," he says. "What, are you going to use one lousy set of sheets?" 

Geralt is looking at him very strangely. 

"What?" Jaskier says. "I mean, I realize I'm not your first choice, but you need _someone_ around. And what kind of alpha can't scrounge up some nesting material?" 

"I don't need all that," Geralt says. 

". . . nesting material?" Jaskier says, squinting at him in confusion. "Do witchers not nest?" 

"We don't," Geralt says tightly. 

"That is the saddest thing that I have ever heard, Geralt," Jaskier says. He deliberately fluffs a pillow. "What, you get mounted on a bare mattress and call it a heat?" 

Geralt doesn't say anything. 

. . . Jaskier thinks he hates people. 

"Correction, _that_ is the saddest thing that I have ever heard," he says, heaping more quilts on the bed and seriously considering adding the rug. "You need a _nest_ , good lord, be _nice_ to yourself for five minutes." 

Geralt comes over to the bed but makes no effort to start nesting. He just stares at Jaskier, who stares back at him expectantly. Geralt . . . continues not to nest. 

"Well?" Jaskier says. 

"I don't need all that," Geralt says again, and Jaskier gives up. 

"Fine," he says, and starts building a nest himself. Jaskier does not actually know how to nest, but he's watched enough partners do it that he has a rough idea of the particulars. It won't be pretty, but it should be functional, and Geralt's always preferred functional to pretty anyway. 

"Jaskier," Geralt says. 

"Do you mean 'thank you, Jaskier, you're so thoughtful, Jaskier'?" Jaskier says, struggling with getting the heaviest quilt into a nice position. "'Jaskier, you're an alpha of so many talents!'" 

"I told you I don't need it," Geralt says. "You're wasting your time." 

"First of all, you absolutely need it," Jaskier says. "Second of all, you also both deserve and _should_ have it, because it's the most basic possible comfort and heats are miserable enough as they are." 

"It's a nest," Geralt says. "No one needs a damn nest to sate a heat." 

"The more you talk the bigger and softer I want to build this thing," Jaskier says, jamming a pillow into the . . . well, the nest- _ish_ structure he's building. Look, he's working on it. "What was your plan here, Geralt, seducing an alpha with that wretched potion and nowhere to shack up? Did that seem like a good idea to you?" 

"Whores don't care," Geralt says. 

"Unfortunately for you, those are in short supply at the moment," Jaskier says, though he suspects whores _do_ in fact care but just want to get paid. "You'll have to settle for me. Don't worry, I happen to be quite good at this." 

The side of the nest falls in. Jaskier fixes it hastily.

"You," Geralt says, oddly. 

"Well, who else?" Jaskier asks. "Oh come on, you're not getting picky on me _now_ , are you?" 

Geralt is just staring at him. 

“Geralt? Hello?” Jaskier waves a hand in front of his face. Geralt doesn’t track it; just keeps staring at his face. “Something wrong?” 

“You,” Geralt says again, and Jaskier makes an offended noise. 

“ _Excuse_ me—” 

Geralt plants his hands on his shoulders and shoves him down onto the bed. Jaskier lands in his mess of a nest, which surprisingly holds up to the abuse. 

“Oof,” he says, more out of surprise than anything else. Geralt’s still staring at him even as he strips off his shirt. “Oh, you don’t want a bath or anything first? There’s still, er . . . blood, in your hair. A bit. Also possibly some viscera and oh no alright then.” 

Geralt’s taken off his pants and crawled on top of him, and if Jaskier weren’t willing to fuck someone with a little blood and guts on them, well, then he wouldn’t be here anyway, would he. Geralt already smells like death anyway thanks to that stupid potion; a little _actual_ death won’t hurt. 

Probably. 

He really is very beautiful. 

“That potion is doing your scent _no_ favors, you realize,” Jaskier says, putting his hands on Geralt’s bare hips. Geralt swats them away, then unfastens Jaskier’s pants and drags them down around his knees. Jaskier might be a bit surprised by the forwardness, but it is, of course, Geralt. Always one to get right to business, and certainly never a shrinking violet. The issue with that, of course, is that given that “down to business” attitude and the rotten scent Geralt’s putting off, Jaskier’s knot isn’t _quite_ in the condition it needs to be right now. “I don’t suppose you’ve got the patience for a bit of foreplay—oh!” 

Geralt is very, very down to business, as the fact that he is currently eye-level with Jaskier’s cock should attest. 

“I suppose one could _argue_ oral counts as foreplay,” Jaskier muses, then curses very loudly as Geralt wraps his fingers around his cock and drags his tongue up it. He’d put his hands in his hair, but if Geralt didn’t want him touching his hips he _definitely_ doesn’t want him touching his hair, and also the whole . . . the blood issue. Because there definitely is some blood in there. 

That should really bother him more than it’s bothering him, actually. Instead it’s just making him feel a bit fond, because of _course_ Geralt would climb into bed with dried blood on him, the idiot. Of course he would. 

“You are incorrigible,” Jaskier informs him breathlessly. He’s not really sure what to do with his hands; Geralt’s are quite busy pinning his hips to the bed. Pinning his hips very _strongly_ to the bed. It’s not a subtle message, so Jaskier doesn’t even try to move, which is easier said than done. Geralt’s tongue is very clever, is the issue there. 

He is by _no_ means complaining, mind. 

“You really are the determined sort,” Jaskier says, because if he can’t move and he can’t touch Geralt, at least he can _talk_. And if Geralt has a problem with _that_ , well, he doesn’t have a hand free to shut him up, does he. “How close is your heat to cresting? I realize asking when your mouth is occupied is a bit silly, but it’s _somewhat_ important, obviously.” 

Geralt lifts his head exactly long enough to say, “Shut up,” and Jaskier huffs. 

“What _can_ I do, do you want me to lay here like a log?” he complains. “I mean, to each their own and all but _really_ , Geralt, that’s a bit rude, don’t you think?” 

Geralt swallows him down and growls around his cock. Jaskier . . . forgets what he was saying, mostly. 

_“Oh!”_

Geralt works his mouth and hand around him, and Jaskier does his best to stay still and not _immediately_ put Geralt off, because despite what he said he does, obviously, want to do this the way Geralt wants. It's _heat_ , after all. Omegas in heat don't get as stupid as alphas in rut, but they do get very sensitive about things. Geralt probably less so than most, he expects, but he doesn't want to find out he's wrong the hard way. 

_Geralt_ getting upset would be . . . very unfortunate. 

"You're very good at that," Jaskier says. "No surprise, you've had all the time in the world to _get_ good at it, but you know, some people just don't put in the effort." 

Geralt ignores him. Jaskier practically feels at home, except for the part where Geralt's sucking him off, and that probably won't last long because—

It does not last long. Geralt gets him fully hard, and then immediately pulls off him and moves up over his body. Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, and Geralt sits down on his cock and completely blows it out of his head. 

It probably wasn't important, he decides. 

"So that's a 'no' on the foreplay?" he manages feebly. Geralt gives him this _look_ and then starts moving, and Jaskier just . . . groans, mostly, and grips the bed because he can't grip Geralt. Speaking of being good at things . . . 

_Very_ good at things. 

"Oh lord," Jaskier says, and Geralt rides him—easily, really; quickly but not urgently, and like he's not even in heat at all. Jaskier wants to fuck up into him very, very badly but would bet his lute that Geralt wouldn't let him get away with it. "Oh, you're really _good_ at that, oh, oh, _oh_ —" 

"Shut up," Geralt growls again, but he doesn't cover his mouth or punch him so Jaskier figures it's fine. 

"If you want me to shut up you should be worse at this," he says. "Which— _oh_ —you are definitely not being." 

Geralt grunts irritably, but doesn't tell him to shut up again. He does do something downright _inspired_ with his hips, though. 

_"Fuck!"_ Jaskier chokes. Geralt does it again, and Jaskier digs his fingers into the bedsheets. That is—that is a _lot_ , is what that is. "Oh, Geralt, Geralt, fuck, you're a _glory_." 

Geralt looks no less irritated, being Geralt. He plants a hand on Jaskier's chest like he actually needs held down for this, his big palm pressing down and fingers splaying wide, and Jaskier groans. He wants to grab onto the other very, very badly. Just . . . so badly, damn. 

He's struggling to keep his mouth shut, but it is _not_ easy. 

"Slow down, slow down, I'm gonna come," he manages to get out, and Geralt gives him this look like he's an _idiot_ and just rides him harder. Jaskier pushes his head back into the bed, cursing roughly. If he didn't know better, he'd think Geralt was more interested in getting _him_ off than getting off himself. 

. . . damn it, Geralt. How does that even make _sense_? 

Geralt _grinds_ down into Jaskier's lap and he comes shocky and _sharp_ , because he is but a man and Geralt rides cock like a damn professional. Geralt squeezes around his knot, locking them together tight, and Jaskier groans, long and low. He has to stop himself from trying to touch him again. 

"Geralt, what the _hell_ ," he wheezes weakly, propping himself up on his elbows. "You didn't even come!" 

"I don't need to come," Geralt says. "The knot's all that matters." 

". . . Geralt," Jaskier says disbelievingly, staring up at the other. It's true an omega doesn't _technically_ need to come during a heat, that just getting knotted is enough to keep things from deteriorating too badly—except oh, for how _miserable_ that idea is. 

"I just need to sate the heat. Nothing else," Geralt says tersely. Jaskier is honestly completely and genuinely speechless, possibly for the first time in his life. This _cannot_ be the way Geralt spends a normal heat, refusing to nest or even _come_. He refuses to believe that. 

"I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that," he says. "How do you want to come? Now, or when my knot goes down? I could eat you out. I assure you, I've gotten rave reviews about my tongue." 

Geralt glares at him. Jaskier does not want to touch him any less. 

"Seriously, you can't possibly actually spend your heats like this," he says. "I _know_ you get off when you have normal sex, it isn't subtle. What's the difference now?" 

"Hn," Geralt says, unhelpfully. Jaskier scowls. Geralt clenches his body around his knot, and he gasps, nearly forgetting—

"Don't try to _distract_ me!" 

Geralt just grinds down around his knot ruthlessly, and Jaskier chokes and fists his hands in the sheets. It's too much too quick, and he is, again, but a man. 

_"Geralt,"_ he practically whines, like a very cool and confident alpha who definitely has it all together, and Geralt puts his hand over his mouth and hisses threateningly at him, eyes flashing bright. That is . . . very attractive, dammit. Jaskier would like to have a very stern word with his libido about this one. 

Geralt keeps his hand over his mouth. Jaskier considers several ways to deal with this problem, including the very mature option of licking it, but doubts they'd be particularly effective. Geralt's stopped grinding, at least. 

Jaskier has _so_ many questions. Just . . . so many. 

Geralt keeps his hand over his mouth until his knot starts going down, unfortunately, and then gets off him and returns to his bag to swallow a potion. Jaskier hopes it's not the one that makes him smell terrible but isn't actually holding out much hope for that. 

He's a bit distracted by the sight of Geralt standing there naked and sweaty with _his_ come slipping down those well-muscled thighs, though, so that's . . . certainly something. 

It isn't enough to keep his tongue in his mouth, though. 

"You seriously want me to lay here like a dead thing and not even get you off," Jaskier says. Geralt sets down the empty potion bottle on the table, next to an abandoned plate. He doesn't turn to look at him. "That is honestly what you want for your whole entire heat." 

Geralt grunts. He doesn't look at him. Jaskier could goddamn _burst_. 

"Fine," he says, because he can't exactly say he knows better than an omega does about their own damn heat. "I'll do whatever you want. Just . . . come here, will you? Let me touch you a bit?" 

"I don't need that," Geralt says. 

" _I_ need that," Jaskier says frankly, because Geralt is beautiful and not touching him at all may, in fact, actually kill him. "I won't touch your hips again. Or . . . wherever you don't want touched." 

Geralt looks back at him, finally, and narrows his eyes. Jaskier tries to look like a good, capable alpha who's going to do whatever it takes to sate Geralt's heat. That might be easier if his pants weren't still down. 

"Fine," Geralt says. "But you stop when I say stop." 

"Wouldn't dream of doing differently," Jaskier says, holding his hands up in a position of surrender. Geralt comes back over, naked and beautiful and kind of perfect, somehow, despite the messy hair and the dirt from the fight and all the scars. Jaskier decides not to say that, since he likes his tongue where it is. He opens his jacket and shrugs out of it, then peels off his shirt and kicks off his boots and pants and throws them all out of the nest, because they're really just in the way. Geralt watches him the whole time with dark, intent eyes, which is certainly an experience. 

Jaskier moves over to make room for him in the nest. Geralt gives him a _look_ , but gets in. Jaskier counts that as a victory. 

"Where can I touch you?" he asks. Geralt just eyes him. 

"Not my hips or chest," he says finally. "And not my cock." 

"Understood," Jaskier says, settling a careful hand on the other's ribs in hopefully-neutral territory. Geralt makes a noise. It's . . . a strange noise. Jaskier can't figure out what it means. 

Nothing bad, he's assuming, since Geralt doesn't kick him out of the nest. 

Well. Alright, then, he figures, and leans in to kiss the corner of Geralt's mouth. Geralt inhales sharply, jerking back from it, and Jaskier blinks at him in confusion. He hadn't said anything about not touching him there, so . . . 

"Don't use your mouth," Geralt says roughly. 

"Alright," Jaskier says, not understanding. But Geralt asked, so Geralt is going to get. He traces the other's ribs instead, fingers light, and Geralt doesn't jerk back from that. Jaskier feels like he's trying to calm a skittish animal, almost. It's not a familiar feeling to be having in the bedroom, to be honest, and definitely not a familiar feeling to be having around _Geralt_. 

Geralt's letting him touch him, though, so . . . 

So. 

Jaskier strokes down Geralt's side, careful to stop well before his hip, and Geralt stays very still for it. Jaskier wants to kiss him, but since he can't he settles for putting his fingers to the other's lips. Geralt eyes him warily over that, but doesn't say anything. 

Jaskier really does not understand the way Geralt is reacting. 

“You’re acting very strange, you know,” he says, tracing the curve of the other’s jaw. “Does it really bother you that much?” Bad as he wants to touch him, he doesn’t want to do things Geralt hates. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, his voice clipped. 

“That doesn’t sound fine.” Jaskier cradles his face in his hands, then presses their foreheads together. Geralt stares blankly at him. “Mmm. I do wish you’d talk to me, sometimes.” 

He doesn’t mind, usually—if Geralt would rather be quiet, then that’s fine—but in a situation like _this_ . . . well, it wouldn’t hurt to get a little more clarity, that’s all. 

“Just a bit, mind. I’m not asking for the _moon_ here,” he says wryly. Geralt’s eyes flick away, just for a moment. Jaskier lets go of his face and strokes his ribs again. “Your heat symptoms kicked in yet, or did we head off the worst of them? Though I suppose that’s technically not an ‘or’ kind of question, is it.” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt says. Geralt would say he was fine with a sword in his gut, Jaskier is fairly certain. 

“Alright,” he says. “Shooting for slightly better than ‘fine’ here, though, given the circumstances.” 

He touches Geralt’s face again. Traces his cheekbone; puts his thumb against his lower lip. 

“Stop,” Geralt says, and Jaskier reclaims his hand regretfully. Geralt rolls on top of him, bracing a hand against the mattress. He’s leaning over him, but the only place they’re actually in contact is where Geralt’s sitting on his stomach. Jaskier wants to reach up and touch him again, but obviously that’s not an option. He opens his mouth to speak, and Geralt reaches back and wraps his fingers around his cock. 

Ngh. 

“So _forward_ ,” Jaskier says, more or less coherently. Geralt gives him a dubious look, squeezing his cock. It’s something of a dichotomy. “Your hands are divine. Honestly I would not have expected to find sword callouses a turn-on, and yet here we are. Lovely. I could lie here all night, really, which is probably for the best because I think that’s what we’ve agreed on.” 

If he can’t touch him, he can at least talk to him, he thinks, and hums to himself. 

“If you write a song about this, I _will_ kill you,” Geralt says. 

“Maybe just for you,” Jaskier says, perhaps slightly too honestly. Geralt looks at him strangely, his eyes . . . flickering, a bit. At least, Jaskier’s not sure what else to call it. “Just a little melody, perhaps. Obviously not something to play in a bar.” 

“There’s nothing song-worthy about heat,” Geralt says derisively. 

“You are worth _so_ many songs, Geralt,” Jaskier says, _definitely_ too honestly. In his defense, Geralt is beautiful and naked and on top of him _and_ has his hand around his cock. The combination is a bit overwhelming. Usually he only has to deal with one or two of those things at a time, and the hand around his cock part is definitely new. 

Geralt mutters something Jaskier doesn’t quite catch and squeezes his dick in a _very_ promising way that has Jaskier struggling not to rock his hips up. 

“Sorry?” he says. Geralt doesn’t repeat himself, just watching him in silence. It would make a lesser man feel self-conscious, Jaskier is sure, feeling very self-conscious. “What’ve you got against heat, anyway?” 

“It’s a problem,” Geralt says, which is honestly more answer than Jaskier would’ve expected. 

“While I can see that, given your lifestyle, tonight we have a lovely little cabin all to ourselves and nothing else to worry about,” he points out. “Which is, I feel, the opposite of a problem.” 

“You don’t think the lack of a whorehouse is a problem?” Geralt says dryly. 

“That is even _more_ the opposite of a problem,” Jaskier says. “If you think I mind bedding you, you are sorely misinformed. You’re wonderful. The only problem I’m having right now is that you seem to be determined to stoically suffer through your heat as opposed to, oh, enjoying it?” 

“It’s heat,” Geralt says, his eyes flicking over Jaskier, who does not feel self-conscious, again. Of course not. “Nothing enjoyable about it.” 

“Tell that to your dick, Geralt.” 

“I’m more concerned with yours,” Geralt says, and takes the opportunity to slip it inside himself. Jaskier curses a bit, partially over how it feels and partially over how damn good at distractions Geralt is. 

“I _mean_ it,” he says breathlessly, fisting his hands in the sheets again. “Just because it’s heat doesn’t mean it has to be miserable. _I’m_ certainly not feeling miserable.” 

“I don’t intend for you to be,” Geralt says, already moving his hips just about as mercilessly as last time, the bastard. 

“Oh, I assure you, I am not,” Jaskier says fervently, digging his heels into the bed and breathing heavily. “You can understand me—ah!—feeling the same, surely? Dammit, you really are _good_ at that. Not to change the subject. Literally, I am not changing the subject.” 

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Geralt says. “It’s just heat.” 

“If it’s just heat, why don’t you want me to touch you during it?” Jaskier says. He’d feel a bit insulted, really, except it’s so clearly something about Geralt and not him. “What do you think I’m going to do, bite you? I only do that when I’m asked.” 

“No one’s ever bitten me,” Geralt says. Jaskier . . . pauses. 

“. . . I did not mean that kind of biting,” he says finally. He wasn’t even thinking about mating bites when he said that, in fact, because of _course_ Geralt wouldn’t want that. But at the same time—“Really, _no one_?” 

“No,” Geralt says. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, biting back a groan as the other rocks his hips down tighter. “You are killing me, you realize. You can’t tell an alpha something like that when you’re _on their knot_.” 

“Hnn,” Geralt says, and then _does_ in fact sit down on his knot, taking him to the root and clenching around him so hard Jaskier sees _stars_. 

_“Ah!”_ he groans, barely able to keep his hips from jacking up or his hands from grabbing onto him. Geralt plants a hand on his chest again. It’s a bit more intense without clothes in the way, for the record. “Oh, oh, _oh_ , I _mean_ it, you know, you can’t just tell me you’ve never had a mating bite like it doesn’t _matter_.” 

“It doesn’t,” Geralt says. 

“It really, _really_ does,” Jaskier manages tightly. He knows he’s not the big and virile cliche—he’s been mistaken for a beta or omega enough times in his life—but he’s still an _alpha_ , dammit. Geralt can’t just _say_ something like that to him. 

“Why do you care?” Geralt asks. 

“You make me _crazy_ ,” Jaskier says, with great feeling. “You’re on my knot, you won’t let me touch you, and you’re telling me you don’t _belong_ to anyone.” 

How does he not? How has he _never_? 

Jaskier has no idea how he’s supposed to stay still and just _take_ this, and the only reason he’s managing it is because Geralt wants him to. 

“Why would I?” Geralt says, and Jaskier really might be about to lose his mind. 

“Geralt,” he says roughly, clenching the sheets in his hands. “ _Please_ let me touch you.” 

Geralt just looks at him again, keeps riding his dick too-quick and all slicked up and wet inside, all slicked up with his _come_ inside, and doesn’t. Fucking. _Answer_. Jaskier grits his teeth painfully, needing so badly to bite down on something, and shoves his head back into the bed. His hands try to rise up and he forces them back down to the bed, grabbing the quilt over his head instead. Better. They’re out of the way up there. 

“Okay, that’s fine, that’s fine,” he says, mostly to convince himself. “No problem, that’s fine. Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_ —” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier shudders roughly. Geralt’s always smelled stray, but this is different; this is very, very different. He’s going to come again, and Geralt’s _not_ going to come, and no one’s going to take care of him, no one’s going to satisfy him, no one’s going to treat him right because he won’t _let_ Jaskier treat him right and that’s . . . the worst, actually, the absolute worst. 

“Geralt,” he manages again, and not much else. Geralt leans heavier over him, weighs him down, and Jaskier bares his teeth up at him without meaning to. He wants to bite him. He wants to give him that. He wants to bite him to the _blood_ , deep enough so it becomes another one of his scars, so he never forgets even when Jaskier himself is dead and gone and someone else is singing about him. 

No one’s ever _bitten_ him. 

Geralt drops down on his knot and clenches roughly around him and Jaskier absolutely cannot hold out a moment longer, and comes with an unholy shout. Geralt grunts as he does, locks his knot like he wants it there, like he wants _Jaskier_ there, and Jaskier snaps his teeth and wants them in Geralt’s skin. 

_Is that really enough for you?_ he wants to ask, but knows Geralt would lie. 

“Ah,” he gets out, blinking up at the ceiling hazily. Geralt slides the hand on his chest down over his stomach, and Jaskier shudders again. He feels oddly exposed, somehow, like he’s . . . like he’s not sure how to define. Geralt’s very close to him, and seems further away than he’s ever been. 

Jaskier wants to do something, but can’t think of a single damn thing he can do. 

Talk, he supposes, but that really hasn’t done much good so far. 

“Geralt,” he says, because talking’s all he can do. He lowers his hands back to his sides and tries to keep his teeth in his mouth and his breathing even. “Well. Any more sanity-destroying little asides for me? Want to tell me something else that’ll drive me up the wall?” 

“Your knot’s bigger than I thought it’d be,” Geralt says. His hand is still on Jaskier’s stomach. 

“I really did not mean that,” Jaskier says, now guaranteed to be up every single wall in this cottage. “What do you mean, _'thought'_? You’ve thought about my knot? In what context?!” 

Geralt gives a halfhearted shrug. Jaskier might _die_. Geralt’s thought about his knot. How is he supposed to take that? 

_“Geralt,”_ he says, practically pleading. It’s not a very alpha tone of voice, but generally speaking Jaskier doesn’t trot out his alpha voice all that often anyway. People tend to laugh at him when he tries to, for one. 

“Don’t make a fuss about it,” Geralt says. “I just wondered.” 

“Oh, well, that’s better,” Jaskier says, feeling mildly hysterical. Geralt has _wondered_ about his _knot_. “You’re telling me that and you _don’t_ want to come.” 

“No, I don’t,” Geralt says. 

“Hell,” Jaskier says, throwing an arm across his eyes. Geralt cannot keep being on top of him and beautiful and saying things like that. He _cannot_. “You do remember how alphas work, yes, Geralt? You have some concept of that?” 

“Obviously,” Geralt says in irritation. He sounds like he does when he frowns. Jaskier would look at him, but that would require looking at him. 

“Then please don’t sit in my lap and tell me how badly you need taken care of and how much you don’t want it,” he says. 

“I’m not going to make you do that,” Geralt says. 

“That’s the problem!” Jaskier says, pulling his arm away to stare up at the other in disbelief. How does Geralt not know that’s the problem?! “I _want_ to do that! Very badly, as a matter of fact! What exactly about our relationship so far makes you think I _wouldn’t_?!” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and . . . hesitates, almost. Jaskier could fucking _die_. 

“You’re telling me you’ve never belonged to anyone and you spend your heats being miserable to yourself and I shouldn’t even touch you!” he says. 

“I don’t spend my heats being miserable to myself,” Geralt says. 

“Then what on earth is _this_?!” Jaskier demands. He’s never actually had an argument while he was tied with somebody before, but Geralt is, of course, Geralt. 

“It’s nothing,” Geralt says. 

“It is so obviously _something_!” Jaskier says. Geralt puts a hand over his mouth, and he makes an outraged noise. 

“I’m not going to make you do that,” Geralt says. “Just because I . . . want something, doesn’t mean I have to have it.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Jaskier says. “There’s nothing wrong with _wanting_ things, I _know_ you know that!” 

“You’re not a _thing_ ,” Geralt says. Jaskier is about to yell at him again, but then properly processes what he just said and . . . 

“What?” he asks, stupidly. Geralt gets up off his softening knot and come and slick drip down his thighs. Jaskier has to concentrate very hard to not get distracted by that. “What does that mean?” 

“It means what I said,” Geralt says, which is not helpful at all. 

“You want me?” Jaskier says, propping himself up on his elbows again as Geralt gets out of the nest and off the bed. “Did you miss the part where I’m already here?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Geralt snaps in exasperation. He crosses the room to his bag for no reason Jaskier can see. He doesn’t pull out any potions or anything, anyway. 

“I don’t, actually,” Jaskier says. “But you don’t have to want things you already have, Geralt.” 

“Mmm.” Geralt doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at anything, really; just finds a rag and cleans himself up a bit. Jaskier pushes himself up carefully, sitting up in the nest that Geralt refused to build himself and wondering . . . a lot of things, really, but mostly just how Geralt could possibly think he didn’t have him. 

“You smell like death and there’s blood in your hair and dirt all over you and you won’t even let me _do_ anything,” Jaskier says. 

“I’m aware,” Geralt says icily. 

“All that, and I’m still here, aren’t I?” Jaskier says. “You have me. Stop worrying about whatever you’re worrying about and come back to bed.” 

Geralt looks at him. He’s beautiful, again; beautiful and tired and a mess, and probably just barely on the cusp of full heat and still struggling to stave it off, and . . . 

“I mean it,” Jaskier says, holding out a hand towards him. “You have me.” He has no idea why Geralt actually needs to be assured of that, but, well—heat, he’s going to assume. Heat makes people think all kinds of stupid things. 

Geralt looks at his outstretched hand, but doesn’t move towards him. Jaskier resists the urge to fidget. He can be patient, he tells himself. 

He can. Really. 

It’s a long, long moment before Geralt finally steps back towards him, and he stops just out of reach. Jaskier . . . well, there’s only one thing he can do. 

“Come on. Let me be a proper alpha for you, yeah?” he says. “That’s all I want to do.” 

“I didn’t say you weren’t a proper alpha,” Geralt says, frowning at him. 

“You asked me not to be,” Jaskier says. “Which I can do, honest, but I _really_ don’t think that’s the best course of action. Especially if the only reason you don’t want me to do it is _because_ you want me to do it.” 

Geralt’s eyes flicker. He doesn’t say anything. Jaskier takes a chance and gets up onto his knees so he can reach out a little further and catch the other’s hand in his own. Geralt doesn’t pull away, and even shifts in closer. Just barely, but—closer. 

Jaskier can work with that. 

“You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” he asks. 

“I understand,” Geralt says, and Jaskier hopes he does. 

“Can I touch you?” he says. "I would really like to touch you. Not picky about the where." 

"You stop when I say stop," Geralt says, stepping in closer. Jaskier tries not to beam, but, well . . . 

"Where can I touch you?" he asks, smoothing his hand up the other's forearm. Geralt shrugs, which isn't helpful, surprise surprise. Jaskier decides he'll just ask as he goes. "Can I touch your chest?" 

". . . yes," Geralt says. Jaskier lifts his other hand to the other's pec, smoothing across and then cupping it. He brushes his thumb over one of Geralt's nipples, and Geralt grits his teeth. He doesn't say anything about stopping. 

"My mouth?" Jaskier checks, and Geralt nods silently. Jaskier leans in and kisses just below his collarbone, then works his way down to mouth at his other nipple. Geralt inhales a little more harshly. 

If Jaskier hadn't smelled pre-heat on him on the road, he'd have no idea. Maybe witchers don't feel their cycle as much as other people do? Is that a thing? 

He flicks his tongue across Geralt's nipple and Geralt puts a hand on the back of his head, very lightly. Jaskier takes that as encouragement and licks his nipple again, pinching the other in his fingers. Geralt inhales again, sharper this time. Jaskier decides to consider that encouragement too and drags his tongue up his chest, then bites down. 

Geralt bares his teeth silently. Jaskier probably likes that too much. Nobody would think he was the alpha between them, but then again, when does anyone ever? The amount of times their scents have been mistaken is . . . quite a lot, really. 

Jaskier would like it if people couldn't tell the difference at all; if their scents were so intertwined that there _wasn't_ a difference. 

If they smelled like pack, he means. 

Witchers probably don't do that, though. 

He bites his way back down Geralt's chest and Geralt's hand tightens on the back of his head, holding him close—as if he's _going_ anywhere. Not a chance, unless Geralt changes his mind. 

"Ribs?" he asks, glancing up at the other, and Geralt nods. Jaskier puts his hands on his sides to stroke, mouthing at his chest. Geralt bares his teeth again and doesn't make a sound. Jaskier doesn't mind, honestly. 

Not that he wouldn't _appreciate_ a few sounds, just he knows who he's got his hands on right now. 

He kisses Geralt's chest just beside the medallion—close enough that he feels the metal of it press into the corner of his mouth—and curls his fingers against his ribs. There's scar tissue there, but he doesn't bother avoiding it. It's all long healed over. Geralt doesn't do anything; doesn't tighten or loosen his grip on him. Jaskier . . . well, he's willing to take his time. 

He kind of wants to take his time, actually, or at least as much time as heat allows for. Geralt was in such a damn _rush_. 

Jaskier drags his nails down Geralt's ribs and kisses his chest again, mouths across it, touches him as much as he'll allow. He takes his time, just like he wants to, and Geralt's breathing picks up. Jaskier considers pulling him back into the nest, but . . . no, not yet. 

"Alright?" he asks, sneaking a peek up at the other and kissing his chest again. Geralt looks restless and . . . confused, almost, which Jaskier doesn't understand. 

"Fine," Geralt says, which isn't the ringing endorsement Jaskier was hoping for but could be worse. 

"Only fine?" he asks anyway, cocking an eyebrow at him before kissing his chest again, smoothing his hands up his sides. "I can do something else." 

"No," Geralt says. "This is—fine." 

Jaskier hums to himself, letting his hands wander a bit but careful to keep them within declared territory. He can't tell if Geralt actually likes this or is just humoring him, which is a bit frustrating. He just wants to make him feel good. 

"I could eat you out," he says speculatively. "I like doing that. Especially after I've already come in someone." Hard not to, really; it makes his partner smell like _his_. 

"You don't have to do that," Geralt says tightly. 

"You keep saying that like you think I wouldn't _want_ to," Jaskier says, peering up at him again and flattening his hands against his sides. "Really, what did I do to make you think that, because I need to never do it again." 

"Mm," Geralt says. He doesn't look away, but the look on his face is very hard to read. Jaskier mouths at his chest again and Geralt's own mouth tightens. 

"Come on, omega," Jaskier coaxes. "Let me treat you nice." 

"You're doing fine," Geralt says, his voice rough. His hand presses a little tighter against the back of Jaskier's head and Jaskier decides to take it as a direction and drags his tongue across his nipple. He keeps watching Geralt's face, looking for . . . approval, maybe, or some kind of tell. 

No, nobody would think he was the alpha in this situation. 

He sucks at Geralt's nipple and Geralt finally, _finally_ makes a noise. It's barely more than a breath, but it's a noise all the same. Jaskier fucking _thrills_ with it, immediately dragging his tongue across his nipple again, and Geralt digs his nails into his scalp. His eyes don't quite close, but they almost do. 

Jaskier groans, shifting back a bit with intent to move over and give the other side of Geralt's chest the same treatment, but Geralt keeps that tight grip on him and makes it a bit difficult. He settles for pinching his nipple again, rolling it between his fingers, and Geralt makes another noise. 

Jaskier really, really likes that. 

"Sensitive?" he says, kissing Geralt's chest. 

"Mm," Geralt says, his hand still tight on the back of his head. Jaskier thinks he can safely assume that's a "yes". 

"Good," he says, kissing his chest again and mouthing across it; cupping his pecs in his hands to squeeze. They're very nice pecs, as a matter of fact. Jaskier could spend quite a while on them. 

So he does. He kisses and mouths at Geralt's chest, squeezes and strokes it, and lavishes languidly thorough attention on both of his nipples. He deliberately bites down and sucks to leave faint little marks on his skin, completely shameless about the desire to mark him up. Why would he want to do anything else? 

"You have such pretty tits, Geralt," he says, taking a moment to admire them, as well as his work. It's not his most elegant turn of phrase, perhaps, but as long as it gets his point across he figures it's fine. Geralt exhales raggedly, digging his nails into his scalp again. "Really, one of the loveliest pairs I've seen, you should be proud. You could bounce a coin off these. Are you _sure_ I can't write a song about them?" 

_"Yes,"_ Geralt growls in irritation, and Jaskier laughs. 

"No fun," he says, then starts to sing: "Bounce a coin off your witcher . . ." 

Geralt growls again, shoving his face into his chest to muffle him. Jaskier, obviously, is not complaining. He laughs again, then gives Geralt's chest a kiss and pushes his hands up his sides. He doesn't even care about that sour smell to his pheromones anymore. 

"I want to put my mouth all over you," he says. "Several times over, ideally. I _really_ want to, in fact, so what are your feelings on that idea?" 

"Better than you talking my ear off," Geralt says. 

"Wow," Jaskier says. "Okay, _someone_ gets cranky in heat, I see." 

Geralt grunts. Jaskier leans back and tugs coaxingly at him, pulling him towards the nest. Well—as much as he can, anyway, which is not very much. Geralt might as well be a rock. 

He really does feel a bit silly, having to coax an omega into a nest. He did his best with it, okay? He's sure Geralt could've built a better one himself, but . . . 

Geralt leans down over him. For a second Jaskier expects kissed, but alas, that's not Geralt's goal. He's just pushing him back to make room for himself in the nest. Jaskier goes with it, obviously, and Geralt ends up kneeling between his thighs. 

That should really be the other way around, Jaskier can't help but feel. 

"Can I kiss you?" he says, because now he's thinking about it and now that he's thinking about it he really wants it. Geralt gives him another one of those unreadable looks. 

"Why?" he asks. 

"Because you are a very kissable person, Geralt," Jaskier points out reasonably. It could not _possibly_ have been this hard for Yennefer, he thinks. It was probably a _breeze_ for Yennefer. 

Ugh, of course it would've been. 

"Fine," Geralt says, and leans in and cups Jaskier's face in his big broad hands and _oh_. Just like that, Jaskier is being kissed, and it is a very, very good kiss. He no longer cares how much easier it was for Yennefer. 

"Oh," Jaskier sighs dreamily, and kisses back. Geralt kisses slowly, warmly, thoroughly, and Jaskier feels like he could _float_. As much as he wants to touch Geralt without distraction, it's so much better when it's _both_ of them touching each other. 

He puts his hands on Geralt's chest, smoothing down. Geralt grunts into his mouth. Jaskier—well, it's not very alpha of him, but he _purrs_. Geralt seems to soften at the sound, surprisingly. At least, he doesn't seem quite so tense anymore. 

"You're very good at that," Jaskier says breathlessly, smoothing his hands over Geralt's chest again. Geralt doesn't answer, just kisses him again. Jaskier is fine with that. Geralt leans into the kiss and pushes Jaskier down into the nest again, and Jaskier goes. He wants to roll on top of the other, but Geralt clearly prefers this position and Jaskier isn't going to begrudge him it. 

As long as he lets him keep touching him, anyway. 

"Let me get you off?" he says. Geralt huffs. "If you don't actually answer my questions you realize I'm going to have to assume things, and that seems like it'd end poorly." 

"You can get me off," Geralt says. Jaskier _thrills_. 

"You're too kind," he says. "Can I touch your hips? Thighs?" 

"Yes." Geralt looks impatient, like it's not him who's been being the picky one. Jaskier could laugh about it, but he's more occupied putting his hands on Geralt's hips and tugging at them. 

"Up here?" he says, and Geralt moves forward grudgingly and Jaskier slips down until his head's between Geralt's very nice thighs. "Hm. Assuming you could kill me like this?" 

"Obviously," Geralt says, clearly annoyed. 

"Nice," Jaskier says, a bit more approvingly than he means to. Geralt snorts. Jaskier kisses the inside of his thigh, and Geralt . . . well, he doesn't snort again, at least. "I know you love it when I shut up, so please feel free to smother me." 

"You'd die," Geralt says dubiously, and Jaskier laughs and leans in to bite his way up his thigh. Geralt, unsurprisingly, has a lovely cock, which isn't news because he's seen the man naked before, of course, but is definitely something he's noticing much more intimately right now. He wants it in his mouth. 

"Your cock is gorgeous," Jaskier says admiringly. Geralt just puts a hand on his head and guides him right where he wants him and, well, who is Jaskier to deny an omega in need? He drags his tongue up that gorgeous cock and Geralt growls down at him and he digs his nails into the other's thighs. They are very, very nice thighs; did he mention that? 

Jaskier mouths at Geralt's cock and Geralt keeps his grip on the back of his head and grinds into the contact, not greedy or needy but definitely _demanding_. Jaskier groans. He is, as ever, a _terrible_ alpha. Geralt doesn't seem to want him to be a good one, though, so . . . 

Well, that might work out for them. 

He drags his tongue up Geralt's cock one more time, then wraps his lips around it and _sucks_. Geralt growls again, and Jaskier hums around him. Geralt grinds harder against his mouth. Jaskier drags his nails across the other's skin, hoping to encourage the behavior, and Geralt definitely gets the message. 

Jaskier gets his mouth fucked, which is _lovely_ , and Geralt grunts and curses and snarls above him, which is pretty damn lovely too. Jaskier could listen to that all day even _without_ the rush of being the cause of it. He wants to talk, but his mouth is obviously occupied, and for once he thinks he'd rather listen anyway. 

As long as Geralt keeps sounding like _that_ , anyway. 

He does, pleasantly enough, and Jaskier sucks and licks and mouths at him, works his jaw ‘til it’s _aching_ , and shudders with desire when he feels the other’s slick and his own come drip onto his chest. Geralt still smells dreadful, but he _tastes_ delicious, and Jaskier bets his slick would taste even better. 

Geralt comes harshly, when he comes; comes hissing through gritted teeth and fisting his hand tight in Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier feels heady and heavy and like he could keep doing this forever. Geralt yanks him back, breathing heavily, and Jaskier licks his lips and stares up at the other’s twisted face. 

That’s quite a sight, he thinks. 

“Mmm,” he says, cracking his jaw, and tugs at Geralt’s hips again. His cock is one thing, but . . . 

Geralt moves with the tugging, seeming too distracted with aftershocks to resist, and curses _viciously_ when Jaskier licks across his hole. 

“Jaskier—!” he chokes, which might’ve been intended to be a warning but _really_ doesn’t sound like one. Jaskier can’t help licking him again, anyway, and Geralt shudders _beautifully_ for it. Jaskier does the obvious thing, which is hold onto him and push his tongue inside him, and Geralt does the _perfect_ thing, which is ride his tongue like it’s going out of style. Jaskier noises encouragingly, and Geralt snarls down at him again. He’s a flushed mess, and Jaskier wants to mess him up even more. 

“Jaskier, you _fucking_ —ah! _Ah!_ ” 

Jaskier translates that to mean, “Jaskier, you stud of an alpha, don’t stop”, and doesn’t. He thrusts and curls his tongue inside Geralt, slides his hands up his thighs, holds onto him like he’s what’s keeping him close when they both know Geralt would already be a mile from here if he wanted to be. He eats him out as greedily as he knows how, messy and aching with it, and Geralt keeps cursing his name over and over and over again. Again, he could listen to that all day. And he’s going to, if it’s up to him. 

Geralt comes again and _shouts_. Jaskier absolutely _basks_ in it. Geralt grabs him by the hair again and shoves him away, moving off him, and Jaskier grins up at him, smug with the pride of an alpha’s job well-done. 

“Better?” he asks lightly. 

“Shut up,” Geralt pants, his body shaking as he gropes for Jaskier’s cock. “Get in me.” 

_That_ might be heat talking, Jaskier suspects. 

“Gladly,” he says, rolling onto his side and nudging Geralt onto his, and the fact Geralt actually goes with it is _definitely_ heat talking. Jaskier wraps an arm over Geralt’s stomach, pressing up against his flushed and sweaty back, and Geralt hisses nastily back at him. 

“ _In_ me,” he repeats. 

Jaskier obliges, of course. 

_“Ah!”_ Geralt chokes, and Jaskier rocks his hips into him. Geralt reaches back and grabs the back of his neck, like _he’s_ the omega or something, and Jaskier barely keeps his teeth out of Geralt’s. A mating bite is serious business. Not a lifelong commitment or anything, obviously—they rarely last more than a cycle or two, and even mated pairs need to constantly reapply them—but always intense and intimate and not just the kind of thing one does willy-nilly. Jaskier’s had far more partners than he’s given mating bites to, for certain. 

He would absolutely give Geralt one, of course, no questions asked—but _Geralt_ would have to ask. 

“You really should let me write a song about this,” Jaskier says against the other’s throat, because he’s got his mouth free now and he’s all full of words that want to get out. Geralt hisses, digging his nails in tight as teeth on the back of his neck. They might leave marks, at this rate. “Oh, you _flirt_.” 

“Just _fuck_ me,” Geralt grits out. Jaskier, thoughtfully, snaps his hips in tighter. Geralt curses again. His nails are definitely going to leave marks. 

“I assure you, I have no intention of stopping,” Jaskier says. “Although, I do have to ask—what _is_ an omega witcher’s stamina like? Should I be worried?” 

“Jaskier!” 

“It’s just a question,” Jaskier says. “Almost definitely won’t make it into the chorus.” 

Geralt snarls viciously. Jaskier drops a kiss on one of the soured scent glands in his throat, because he can. He wants Geralt to smell as much like _his_ as possible when this is all said and done. He doubts he’ll get to enjoy it long, but he wants it all the same. He’d like to know who _wouldn’t_. 

He imagines Geralt leaving the cottage smelling like _his pack_ and buries his face in the other’s shoulder, his hips jerking quicker. That is . . . a very nice thought. Geralt’s never smelled like anyone’s pack, at least not in the time Jaskier’s known him. Smelling like _his_ . . . 

Yes. It’s a very nice thought. 

“You know how people always think you’re the alpha between us?” he muses. “I want to make you smell so claimed that no one ever makes that mistake again.” 

Geralt _jerks_ , his nails biting deep into Jaskier’s neck and on his arm. Jaskier might be bleeding. He really does not care. 

“Would you like that?” he asks, because he _is_ an alpha and there are certain things he just can’t let go. “If I made sure people always knew you belonged to someone?” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out roughly. Jaskier kisses his scent glands again. 

“I would,” he says, and lets just a bit of his alpha voice rumble through the words. Geralt chokes. 

_“Jaskier,”_ he says again, and this time it’s the closest thing to a whine Jaskier’s ever heard out of him. “Jaskier, don’t—don’t just—” 

“Don’t just what?” Jaskier asks, after the end of the sentence doesn’t come. 

“Don’t just _say that_ ,” Geralt croaks. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” 

“Alright. Only things I mean,” Jaskier says agreeably as he moves a hand down to stroke the other’s cock, rolling his hips inside him so his growing knot presses against his rim. Geralt makes that choking sound again. “I want you to smell like mine. I want you to smell like mine, and I want _everyone_ to know what it means.” 

This time, Geralt really does whine, a punched-out thing that sounds like it’s painful in his throat, like it barely escapes. Jaskier licks across his scent glands, and Geralt _moans_. Jaskier could say a lot more, but isn’t sure where to start. There’s so _much_ he wants to say to Geralt, and, well—captive audience, or just about. 

“So pretty,” he says senselessly, stroking Geralt’s cock a little quicker, rolling his hips in a little rougher. His knot pops in, and Geralt _keens_. 

Jaskier is so glad he’s letting him do this. 

“You close? Gonna come for me again?” he coaxes, rubbing Geralt’s cock harder; grinding his hips in tighter. “Come on, Geralt, you know I want to smell like yours too.” 

Geralt makes a strangled noise that _almost_ sounds like Jaskier’s name, and comes. Jaskier presses up tight against his back and thrusts just a few more times, ‘til he’s coming too and Geralt is moaning from the pressure of his knot all swollen up inside him. Jaskier rumbles low in his throat, and Geralt’s nails drag across the back of his neck. 

“So pretty,” Jaskier rasps again as they both catch their breath, and Geralt closes his eyes and hides his face in the side of the nest. “So _good_. You’re so tight and wet for me, and you move better than anything.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, shuddering. 

“I don’t know how anyone ever lets go of you, I don’t know how anyone ever lets you go _anywhere_ without scenting you up,” Jaskier says—rambles, really, because how is he supposed to keep his tongue with Geralt in his arms? “You’re so delicious, so _sweet_ —” 

“Enough,” Geralt grunts, tightening his nails on his neck again. 

“You realize I’m not an omega, right?” Jaskier says. “I mean, I hope you do, you’re locked around my knot right now. The hand on the scruff isn’t doing much, is all I mean. Except for being unbearably hot, anyway.” 

Geralt squeezes his neck. Jaskier buries his face in his shoulder with a low, pleased groan. So he likes being pushed around a little; so what? 

“The heat’s receded,” Geralt says. 

“You mean in the ‘the heat is done’ kind of way or in the ‘the heat is going to come back _worse_ kind of way’?” Jaskier checks. Geralt shoots him an irritated look. “Worse. Got it.” 

“Of course it’ll come back,” Geralt says tightly. “I can’t get bred. Nothing to do but burn through it.” 

“I mean, I’ve done harder things than that,” Jaskier says, skimming his fingers over Geralt’s stomach. “Assuming an omega witcher’s stamina isn’t, well . . .” 

“It is,” Geralt says shortly. 

“. . . I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s a shame Yennefer isn’t here.” 

Geralt shudders. Jaskier pokes his shoulder meaningfully. 

“Yes, like that,” he says. “We could take turns. Take proper care of you. Then you’d _really_ smell like you were somebody’s, wouldn’t you.” 

“Hnn,” Geralt says thinly. Jaskier’s already trying to come up with ways to handle a witcher’s stamina in the bedroom. It’s hard enough to satisfy an omega in heat as it is. 

Well, there’s a few tricks to try. As long as the omega _feels_ like they’re locking a knot, that’s what matters. 

“Not that I’d really want to be pack with that woman, but for your sake, well . . .” Jaskier trails off, hooking his chin over Geralt’s shoulder and tightening his arms around him. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? I can get you something after my knot goes down.” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt murmurs, shaking his head. Jaskier presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“If you’re sure,” he says. After the next round he’s _definitely_ grabbing some water for him, at least. Maybe coaxing him into a bath, too. “Is that dreadful potion ever going to wear off?” 

“It’s not supposed to,” Geralt says. “Supposed to last the whole heat, so no one bothers me.” 

“Well, that’s horrible,” Jaskier says conversationally, because that sounds _miserable_. “In the future, you realize, I would be willing to bother you however you’d like. Just for the record and all.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt says. 

“You saying that makes me worry about it, Geralt,” Jaskier says. Makes him worry about it quite a _lot_ , in fact. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says. 

“It’s not fine,” Jaskier says, tightening his grip on him. Geralt grunts. “You should be taken care of when you’re in heat. You should have a nice big nest and a good alpha.” 

“Witchers don’t nest,” Geralt says. He’s looking at the wall. 

“None of you? Ever?” Jaskier says skeptically. Geralt would _know_ , obviously, but . . . 

“None of us,” Geralt says. “Ever.” 

“Well.” Jaskier hooks his chin over his shoulder again; squeezes his arms around him. “I suppose I’ll just have to build the nests, then. When it comes up, I mean.” 

Geralt lets go of his neck and looks back over his shoulder at him. Jaskier feels . . . not _trusted_ , exactly, but . . . something. Something. 

“I realize it’s probably not the prettiest nest you’ve ever been in, but I’ll get better at it,” he says. 

“I’ve never been in a nest before,” Geralt says. Jaskier buries his face in the other’s shoulder and _barely_ keeps his teeth in his mouth. He probably should’ve realized that, but he didn’t. 

“Ngh,” he says. _“Geralt.”_

“What?” Geralt says. 

“Let me take care of you,” Jaskier says. He wants to bite him so badly his _teeth_ hurt. “Please.” 

“I just did,” Geralt lies. 

“No, you let me make you come,” Jaskier corrects. It’s _something_ , but—“That’s really not the same thing.” 

“I don’t need taken care of,” Geralt says. Jaskier does not even have the fucking _words_. 

“You don’t have to need it,” he says, a little bit of alpha slipping into his tone. “You can just want it.” 

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier presses his mouth against his throat, catching one of his hands to grip tight in his own. Geralt . . . well, he doesn’t pull away. Admittedly, they’re tied, so there’s only so “away” he could get. 

Still. 

“When my knot goes down, I’m going to get you a drink,” Jaskier says, tracing lightly across Geralt’s stomach. “And something to eat. And clean you up a bit too, before you get too sticky.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and nothing else. Jaskier kisses his throat again. Geralt just . . . doesn’t say anything. 

Jaskier _thinks_ that’s a “yes”. 

He waits—mostly—patiently for his knot to go down, stroking Geralt’s stomach and holding his hand in his own. Geralt doesn’t grip him in return, but still, he doesn’t pull away. That might be the most he can let himself do, Jaskier finds himself thinking. 

Eventually, his knot does go down, and Jaskier pulls himself away regretfully. He gets that rag and cleans Geralt up, then himself. Geralt watches him silently. Jaskier could say a lot of things, but can’t pick. 

He goes to the table, then the cupboards. There’s a pitcher of water left out, and a decent amount of food in the cupboards. He gets around a plate of cheese and bread and apples and a cup of water, and brings both to the bed to present to Geralt like any decent alpha would. Geralt looks at him like no one’s ever done that for him in his _life_. 

He takes the plate, at least. 

Jaskier goes around the cottage as Geralt eats, chewing on an apple of his own and familiarizing himself with where everything is. There’s not really much he needs to find aside from what he already has, but it doesn’t hurt to know, does it? 

Depresses him a bit, knowing the people who set this place up will never be coming back to it, but that’s a horse of a different color. 

“How’s the food?” he says, because he never can stay quiet for very long, and looks back to Geralt, who’s never turned down a free meal in Jaskier’s presence and isn’t likely to start now. He’s cleaned most of his plate, which soothes something primal in Jaskier’s alpha instincts. 

“It’s food,” Geralt grunts, taking another bite of cheese. 

“Don’t be so grateful, Geralt, you’ll embarrass me,” Jaskier says dryly. “Heat symptoms back yet?” 

“No.” Geralt polishes off the rest of the cheese, and the apples go quickly after. Jaskier takes the empty plate from him and leaves it on the table, then goes outside for a bucket of water, then gets the soap and comes back to the nest. 

“May I come in, omega?” he asks. 

“You built it,” Geralt snorts. 

“For you,” Jaskier says. “So, may I come in?” 

“. . . fine,” Geralt says, eyeing him . . . _guardedly_ , almost. Jaskier thinks he hates whoever made Geralt so guarded that it lasts through _heat_. 

“Thank you,” he says, and puts a bit of alpha in his voice again—just enough to give it a low, approving rumble. Even Geralt has to feel _something_ from that, right? 

Geralt doesn’t look any less guarded, unfortunately. 

“Hn,” Geralt says, licking crumbs off his fingers. Jaskier wants to kiss him again very damn badly, but that’s not taking care of him. 

“You’re so lovely,” he says, taking the other’s hands in his own and kissing those instead. They’re dirty and chapped, their nails ragged and torn, and Jaskier aches at the sight of them. He knows Geralt doesn’t care what his hands look like, obviously, but for an omega in _heat_ to be such a mess . . . 

It makes him sad, that’s all. Makes it obvious that no one’s been taking care of Geralt like he deserves. 

“Let’s clean you up,” he says, dipping a clean cloth in the bucket and soaping it up. “The water’ll be a bit cold, alas, but such is life.” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt says. 

“I know,” Jaskier says simply, taking the cloth to the other’s dirty knuckles and rubbing away the dirt and grime and probably-blood on them. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but lets him do it. Jaskier is careful and thorough, working his way from one hand to the other and then up Geralt’s arms. Geralt watches him, again, and stays silent. 

He’s a mess, no surprise, but he lets Jaskier clean him up a bit at a time; even lets him work the blood out of his hair and wipe the dirt off his face. He looks better that way—soft and clean and _taken care of_ , even if he isn’t, exactly. 

At least he’s eaten, and he’s not dirty anymore, and he’s in this cozy little cottage and some semblance of a nest. Jaskier can soothe his instincts with that, and keep his damn teeth in his mouth. 

“Better?” he says. Geralt grunts, looking away. Jaskier sets aside the cloth, then leans in and kisses the corner of his jaw. Geralt . . . softens, even if just barely. Jaskier runs a hand down his arm, then pulls his hand to his mouth and kisses it again. “How do you feel?” 

“Fuck me,” Geralt says. 

“Not exactly what I was asking.” Jaskier kisses his hand again. Geralt falls back into the nest and drags him down on top of him. Jaskier slots in between his thighs easily, and Geralt tugs roughly at him to grind their hips together. Jaskier groans. “Is your heat—” 

“ _Fuck_ me,” Geralt demands. 

That isn’t necessarily a “yes”, especially since Jaskier didn’t even manage to get the question out. Still . . . 

“I will,” he says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s throat. “I’ll take care of you.” 

“Just get _in_ me,” Geralt snaps, his eyes wider than usual and teeth bared. Jaskier hums against his throat, reaching down to stroke himself to full hardness. It isn’t hard, with Geralt underneath him and asking for it. 

It’s not quite what he wants, but . . . 

“I will,” he promises. Geralt grabs onto him; grips him tight. “I’ll give you whatever you need.” 

He’s not actually sure this _is_ what Geralt needs, but it’s what he’s asking for, and Jaskier isn’t going to pretend to know better than him. 

Geralt growls, and Jaskier pushes into him. Geralt’s growl hitches, and Jaskier kisses his throat again and rolls his hips into him. Geralt makes another hitched noise, clinging tighter to him, and Jaskier reaches up to smooth his damp hair back off his head and fucks him. 

“Is this good? Does it help?” he asks as tenderly as he thinks he can get away with, which admittedly isn’t very. 

_“Harder,”_ Geralt snarls. He’s a wolf, alright. 

Jaskier can do that, though, so he does. Geralt curses him out, sounding so _angry_ for some reason, and Jaskier does his damnedest to give him what he’s asked for. 

“I’ve got you,” he says not-quite-tenderly, stroking the other’s hair again, looking him in the eye, and Geralt shoves him off. Jaskier makes a surprised noise, but Geralt’s already flipping over beneath him, pushing his ass back against his cock. Jaskier groans, his head dropping forward, and Geralt reaches back and grabs his hip. 

“In me,” he hisses, and of course Jaskier obeys. He pushes back into the other and thrusts so deep his knot’s pressing against his rim, and Geralt snarls hotly and pushes back. Jaskier’s growing knot pops into him, spreading him wide, then out again. 

“You’re good. It’s alright,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck. “I’m here.” 

Geralt makes this noise, this _hurt_ noise, and it’s all Jaskier can do not to bite him. 

“Geralt. You’re good,” he says, getting a hand underneath the other to stroke his cock. He puts _alpha_ in his voice, because it’s the best he can do, but Geralt just makes that hurt noise again, grabbing the quilt and fisting his hands in it. “Please, you’re good, I’ve _got_ you.” 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing _wrong_ , but Geralt’s body is tense and his pheromones are miserable and every time Jaskier tries to stop, tries to ask him what’s going on, they get even worse. He’s doing something wrong, he’s making a mistake, but he can’t figure out what or _how_ and Geralt won’t _tell him_ and he—and he—

 _“Geralt,”_ Jaskier says, practically pleading, and Geralt buries his face in the nest and pushes back into his thrusts and doesn’t say a damn word to him. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do, so he talks, because it’s the only thing he _can_ do. “Geralt, what is it, tell me, am I hurting you?” 

_“Yes,”_ Geralt says, his voice raw and broken, and Jaskier freezes, horrified. “Don’t _stop_!” 

“I don’t want to _hurt_ you!” Jaskier says. 

“Then stop saying things you don’t mean and _fuck_ me,” Geralt hisses, digging his fingers into the bed. 

“I mean it,” Jaskier says. “I mean all of it, Geralt, I swear, I’m not—” 

_“Get off!”_ Geralt snarls, and Jaskier immediately retreats, pulling out of him and practically scrambling to the other side of the nest. Geralt shoves himself upright and rakes his hair out of his face, panting for breath. He’s beautiful. Jaskier has no idea what to do for him. 

“I’m just trying to take care of you,” he says, a little more desperate than he wants to sound. Geralt looks back at him, face flushed and eyes dull. 

“I don’t need that,” he says. 

“But don’t you _want_ it?” Jaskier says. 

“No one has ever wanted to take care of me,” Geralt says through gritted teeth, which isn’t an answer. “Don’t lie, Jaskier. It doesn’t help.” 

“I’m not _lying_!” Jaskier says. “Why would I lie to you about that?!” 

“Why would anyone?!” Geralt snaps. “In a _hundred_ fucking years, why would you be the one who means it?!” 

“I _do_ mean it!” Jaskier shouts, alpha voice and all, and Geralt looks at him with obvious fury, eyes too wide and jaw clenched. 

“Don't fucking _alpha_ me,” he says tightly. 

"I'm not trying to—I just want you to believe me!" Jaskier says. "It's not a lie!" 

"It's always a lie," Geralt says. 

"Geralt, how long have we known each other, and you think I'd lie to you about something like that?!" Jaskier demands. He thinks he'd be offended, but—it feels like something about Geralt, again. Not him. "I'm just trying to do my job!" 

"I'm not your job," Geralt snaps. 

"Taking care of you is!" Jaskier says. Nobody else is doing it, after all, and _someone_ has to. That's the least of what Geralt deserves. 

"You're human!" Geralt says. "You're human and you're weak and you're a _liar_ —" 

"What does being human have to do with it?!" Jaskier says. "And I'm not lying! What would that _possibly_ get me?!" 

"I don't know!" Geralt looks furious, still. Jaskier just wants to soothe it away. 

"Nothing," he says, trying not to sound tender. Geralt wouldn't appreciate it. "It wouldn't get me anything. So why would I do it?" 

"I don't _know_ ," Geralt says. Jaskier wants to touch him so _badly_. 

"Your heat—" he starts, and Geralt cuts him off. 

"I don't want to hear anything about my damn heat," he snaps. Jaskier could say a lot about heat, probably, and just what it might be doing to Geralt's emotions, but . . . well, it's not like Geralt doesn't already know that, is it. 

Still. 

"I'm just trying to make it easier on you," he says. "That's all. I swear." 

"I don't need that," Geralt says. 

"But you should _have_ it," Jaskier says, barely able to keep the alpha out of his voice. Geralt doesn't want that. 

But how many times is he going to have to say the same thing before Geralt hears it? 

"I don't want it," Geralt lies, and Jaskier's heart clutches painfully in his chest. Hearing that from any omega, but especially _Geralt_ . . . 

"Geralt," he says. Maybe he _should_ lie. Pretend like it's not killing him that Geralt feels like this about the idea of being taken care of, like it doesn't matter that he's never had a mating bite, like it's fine if he just knots him and _abandons_ him. 

He really doesn't think he could do that. 

Geralt looks miserable. Jaskier _feels_ miserable. He's supposed to be good with words. Words are supposed to be what he _does_. 

Why doesn't he have the right ones? 

"I'm not lying," Jaskier says helplessly, wanting so badly to reach out, to touch him, to soothe away that look on his face. If Geralt would let him do that, anyway, which he sincerely doubts. 

"Just stop talking, Jaskier," Geralt says tiredly, and Jaskier bites back _so many_ words. "Come here." 

He goes, obviously. He moves in close and Geralt pulls him in closer; practically cradles him with his body, putting an arm around his back and a hand on the back of his head. 

"You're a good alpha," Geralt murmurs. "You don't have to pretend, alright?" 

Jaskier doesn't even _understand_. He's not pretending anything. He's trying to be good, but he's not _pretending_. 

"Fuck me," Geralt says, reaching down to squeeze his cock, and that . . . that's something he'll let Jaskier do for him, at least. That's _something_. 

Not enough, but something.


	2. Chapter 2

Geralt wakes up feeling well-fucked and exhausted, Jaskier asleep on his chest. He barely resists the impulse to shove him off; he barely resists the impulse to pull him closer. 

He's so tired. 

Jaskier sleeps like the dead, fortunately, so escaping the nest—the fucking _nest_ —without waking him isn't hard. Geralt considers just leaving, but there's a low, slow-burning warmth in his gut that tells him the heat's not done with him yet, and he doesn't relish the idea of riding Roach with cramps and nausea and all those other shitty side effects going. The road's dangerous enough without going out in piss-poor condition. 

He wants to just go back to sleep and stay there. 

Instead he cleans himself up with the bucket of water Jaskier brought in earlier, gets re-dressed, and eats the better part of a slightly stale loaf of bread. He refills the bucket with clean water, goes out to feed Roach, leaves out food for Jaskier in case the other wants it, and . . . doesn't know what to do with himself. His heat's receded enough that there's no reason to wake Jaskier, for the moment, so he doesn't. 

He can't believe the bastard actually built a nest. Geralt's gone his entire life without nesting, and Jaskier just . . . does it? 

He's an _alpha_ , for fuck's sake. What kind of alpha builds a nest, even for an omega like him? 

_Especially_ for an omega like him. 

Geralt exhales roughly, looking around the cozy little cottage that is so the opposite of anyplace he should ever be. He's only here because people are dead, though, so . . . 

So. 

Jaskier sleeps on, oblivious. Geralt thinks he prefers it that way. An alpha scent in the room to help soothe his roiling pheromones, but no accompanying questions or lies or anything like that to go with. 

Yes. That's better. 

He doesn't know why Jaskier thought he _had_ to lie to him, but the other's . . . young, still, or fairly young still. He probably thought it was expected. Geralt doesn't like being lied to, though, even in heat. Or especially. He knows some omegas do, but for him . . . no, that’s never been a thing. He doesn’t want to be told he’s things he’s not or that someone’s going to do something they can’t or won’t. 

Alphas always want to satisfy something immediate and never want to deal with the long-term. That’s how it is, at least for him. He understands that, and really, he doesn’t blame them. There’s nothing in it for them. He’s not the mating type. What would be the point? 

There isn’t one. Obviously. 

Geralt sits down at the table and waits. Jaskier sleeps. Geralt wonders how long he can sit out the heat before he has to wake him up again, and also why Jaskier’s even here to begin with. He could’ve left him to ride it out alone. Geralt’s done that before. It’s not his _favorite_ thing in the world, but it’s a lot simpler than this has been. But Jaskier acted like it was a foregone conclusion that he’d stay, when that has never been anyone’s conclusion in Geralt’s _life_. 

It’s pity, he supposes, or something else Jaskier should know better than to think he needs. Not empathy, because rut is _nothing_ like heat, although he supposes after this he _is_ going to owe Jaskier a rut partnering, if it ever comes up. It’s been a long time since he’s done that—a long time since anyone’s asked him to do that—but it’s not hard. 

That’s assuming Jaskier would even ask, but then, he never has been properly afraid of him. He called him a butcher in cold blood and without the faintest hint of fear in his scent. 

He’s not the cleverest man Geralt’s ever met, but he’s so damn single-minded when he wants something. So of course Geralt let him fuck him, and let him make him come, and let him lie to him. 

He could only stand it for so long, but he let Jaskier do it all the same. 

Stupid. 

Geralt exhales. He misses Jaskier’s cock, which is a definite sign his heat’s rising again, but he doesn’t go to wake the other up. Not yet. He doesn’t need it yet. He can wait. 

He misses it, though. 

He doesn’t squirm in his seat, because he’s not a damn _child_ , but it’s hard not to. Hard not to go over and wake Jaskier up, not to touch or suck his cock, not to sit on it until they tie again. The last round they fucked eye-to-eye, which was a mistake, but Jaskier seemed to like it. Geralt didn’t, because Jaskier got this fucking _soft_ look on his face for it and the sight of it was . . . 

Painful, maybe. Maybe that’s the word. 

It’s not quite the right word, Geralt thinks, but he’s very used to things being painful. It’s the closest comparison he has. 

So yes. Painful. 

He misses Jaskier’s cock. He wants it inside him. He wants it to come in him. He wants it to _knot_ in him. He wants—

Geralt exhales. Inhales. Pushes the tension out of his body. He stays in his seat. He doesn’t need it. Not yet. 

He looks at Jaskier, curled up naked in a nest he built because Geralt has no idea how to, and something in his gut _burns_. 

He stops looking at Jaskier. He looks at the wall instead, and stays still and silent, and waits. When it’s too much—when it’s almost too much, he corrects himself—when it’s almost too much, then he’ll wake Jaskier. Then he’ll sit on his cock again, get him inside him, ride him ‘til the fucking _bed_ breaks. And if Jaskier tries to lie to him again . . . 

He’ll stop him. Obviously. 

Something cramps low in Geralt’s gut and he represses a grimace, curling his hand into a fist on the table. It’s not as painful as it could be, with an alpha’s scent all over him and an alpha’s come inside him, but it’s painful enough. His clothes feel stifling. His hole feels empty. _He_ feels . . . a lot of things, he thinks, but too many to narrow down to just a word. 

If he woke Jaskier up, Jaskier would fuck him. 

But he doesn’t need it yet. 

Geralt concentrates on breathing, and not the heat under his skin and the sweat on it, not the tightness in his chest and throat, not . . . anything else. Nothing else. Breathing is simple. He can do that. 

He doesn’t need to wake Jaskier up. 

If he does . . . if he wakes Jaskier up, Jaskier will start talking again. Maybe use his alpha voice again, the one that makes Geralt so fucking _wet_ every time he hears the faintest hint of it. 

Maybe lie to him again. 

Jaskier sighs in his sleep, and Geralt tightens the fist he has on the table. He doesn’t need to wake him up yet. 

He could. Jaskier wouldn’t mind, he’s sure. He could take off his clothes and crawl back into that nest and tell Jaskier what he . . . what he needs, and Jaskier would do his damnedest to give it to him. At least for now. At least for the short-term. 

He could. 

He doesn’t. 

He doesn’t need it yet. 

Jaskier is still sleeping. Geralt still misses his cock, and . . . other things. His scent up close, his hands seeking safe places on his body, his alpha voice, just his _voice_ —

Geralt _wants_ him. And he knows how very, very dangerous it is to want people. He’s learned that lesson enough times by now, but apparently not enough to not have to learn it at least once more. Jaskier is laying there asleep and Geralt should leave, should grab his pack and _go_ and not look back. He should suffer through the heat pains, suffer with Jaskier’s scent all over him, and leave this miserable little village and cozy little cottage far, far behind. 

He should never, ever have let Jaskier touch him. 

Wanting is dangerous. Dangerous and a _waste_. Wanting is foolish, childish, _stupid_ — 

Geralt breathes. He concentrates on breathing. He wants to touch Jaskier, to crawl into that nest, to put his hands all over him and get his hands all over himself in return. He feels like he’s never wanted to be touched so badly. He has, obviously—he’s wanted to be touched a lot worse than this, he’s sure, all the heats he’s spent alone—but it _feels_ that way. 

Jaskier just smells so _good_ , and right now . . . right now, _he_ smells like Jaskier. Like Jaskier’s his alpha. 

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek; digs his nails into his palms. _Wants_ , fiercely, but doesn’t—he doesn’t need it yet. He doesn’t. So he doesn’t crawl into the nest, and he doesn’t wake Jaskier. 

He can wait. It’s fine. He knows he’s too demanding in heat anyway, knows he wants too much, so the longer he waits the better. He’s already made Jaskier go more rounds than a normal omega would. 

He just feels so _empty_. 

Jaskier keeps sleeping. Geralt’s not sure when he went back to watching him. He stopped for a while, didn’t he? 

He wants him to wake up. He wants him to wake up and call him back to the nest and fuck him ‘til he doesn’t have to think anymore, ‘til everything’s _simple_ , but it’s not that simple. He smells like he belongs to Jaskier, like Jaskier belongs to _him_ , and it means nothing. 

It means nothing, but it’s making him so _wet_. 

Geralt buries his face in the arm he has on the table as another painful cramp comes over him, and his other hand massages his stomach. It doesn’t help, really. Only getting knotted or coming helps. It’s too soon to wake up Jaskier, though, and . . . 

It’s just too soon to wake up Jaskier. 

He could, though. He could wake up Jaskier and Jaskier would fuck him, fill him up so he isn’t so achingly _empty_ anymore, get his scent all over him all over again. Make him smell like he belongs to him, as if he’s ever belonged to anyone. As if he ever could. 

But he could smell like it, if Jaskier touched him. And he could feel like it, if he let Jaskier lie to him again. 

Geralt curls his fingers against his stomach and exhales. Inhales. Exhales. Breathes. 

He wants to be touched so, so badly. 

But he doesn’t need it, not yet, so he doesn’t wake Jaskier. 

He really is so wet. He thinks he’s soaking through his pants. He can’t help it, with Jaskier’s scent all over him; with Jaskier’s scent all over this cottage. If he wanted to lie to himself, he could pretend they belonged here. Pretend it was theirs, or at least Jaskier’s, and . . . 

Never mind. Stupid. Stupid fucking thing to think. 

Geralt bites his arm. He looks at Jaskier again, and gets even wetter. Too soon, he tells himself again. Too soon. He can wait. 

Jaskier smells so good. Jaskier’s cock _feels_ so good, so big and thick and _fat_. Geralt wants it in him again—his mouth, his hole, he doesn’t care. He bites down harder on his arm because _not yet_ and shoves the heel of his hand against his own cock to just . . . just for a moment’s relief. Just a little bit. 

It doesn’t feel like a relief. 

He tugs open the front of his pants, slips a hand in, and just . . . touches himself, just a bit. He doesn’t need it yet, but he wants it _so_ fucking badly. And if he comes again, it’ll be one less thing to ask of Jaskier; one less moment of too-much. 

That’s better, he tells himself, and shifts his hips and slips his fingers inside himself. It’s easy, because he’s wet and slicked-up and well-fucked, and he shudders at the feeling. That's because of Jaskier. 

Fucking _heat_. 

Geralt hates heat. It makes him stupid and vulnerable and fucking _lonely_ and it's dangerous, besides. A compromised witcher is a dead one. And he's made it all this time avoiding Jaskier when his heat was due, but of course this time it had to be fucking early, had to sneak up on him on an unsafe back road, when leaving Jaskier to his own devices might've gotten the damn bard killed. 

He hadn't actually expected Jaskier to partner him, but he'd known he'd want him to. Want him to touch him, and scent him, and put that big fat knot in him. The only way this could be worse would be if he'd gone into heat around _Yennefer_. 

No. Yennefer would've known better than to lie to him. And if Yennefer were here . . . 

He _squirms_. 

If Yennefer were here, they could both . . . they'd both partner him. Jaskier'd said. They'd both partner him and he wouldn't need to wait, because even if one was worn out the other wouldn't be. They'd be . . . they'd both . . . 

He buries his face in his arm again and fucks his fingers deeper into himself. They make wet, obscene noises and his hole _drips_. It's not enough, not like Jaskier's cock would be, but it's something. It'll do. 

He doesn't need it yet, so it's fine. 

He just needs . . . 

Jaskier sighs in his sleep again and Geralt fucks his fingers in quicker; pushes in another. It's almost enough. It's so, so _close_ to enough. He just needs to come, and then he can wait. He can wait. 

It's almost enough. 

He bites down harder on his arm, squeezing his eyes shut, and curls his fingers inside himself. He's so close, but it still isn't getting him there. It's hard to come when he can't stop thinking about how much better it'd be if it were Jaskier's fingers, Jaskier's tongue, Jaskier's _cock_. How good it would feel to be back in Jaskier's nest, being touched by him and overwhelmed by his pheromones. 

Jaskier would kiss him, probably. Jaskier seems to like kissing. Geralt . . . people never kiss him as much as he wants them to, but Jaskier almost did. Jaskier would do it again, he's sure. He wouldn't even have to ask. 

He leans heavier against the table, trying to fuck his fingers in even deeper, and can't get—it's not enough. Not a cock, not a knot, not _enough_. He wants more so _badly_ and it's not enough. 

He fucking _despises_ heat. Any other time it'd be enough, it'd be plenty, it'd be fine, but in _heat_ . . . in heat he wants all sorts of things he can't have. 

Too many things he can't have. 

His skin's so hot. His gut is aching. He's going to burn up, melt away, _evaporate_ —

Geralt hisses very, very quietly and twists his fingers inside of himself and digs his nails into the meat of his palm. He doesn't look at Jaskier. He doesn't think about things he can't have. He doesn't—he doesn't—

He just . . . doesn't. 

It's fine. It's fine. He can do this, he can come, he can stop thinking about what he _wants_ long enough to fucking _come_. He doesn't need anything else. He doesn't. He just needs this, and he'll be fine. 

Better this than being lied to again, anyway. Better this than pretending he's something he's not. 

He doesn't need an alpha. He's been fine without one plenty of times. 

He doesn't need _Jaskier_. 

He doesn't need . . . 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier asks as he sits up in the nest, and Geralt _whines_. He doesn't mean to, doesn't intend to, but it escapes him in a rush, and Jaskier leans forward and—"Geralt," he says, and Geralt finally, _finally_ comes. Instinct has him trying to lock his slick-soaked fingers, instinct that expects Jaskier's knot, and he muffles a disappointed moan in his arm. He doesn't feel sated or satisfied. He doesn't feel _better_. 

Jaskier gets up off the bed, out of the nest, and comes over and touches his hair. Geralt looks up at him blurrily, resisting the urge to lean into his hands. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says again. "What are you doing?" 

Geralt doesn't answer. It's obvious, isn't it? 

_"Geralt,"_ Jaskier says with alpha in his voice, and an aftershock of orgasm shudders through Geralt. He tries to lock his fingers again and has to bury another whine in his arm. 

There's nothing to say. 

". . . can I touch you?" Jaskier says, and Geralt can't do anything but nod. Jaskier puts his hand over the back of his and slips clever fingers inside him with his own, and Geralt _shakes_. His legs spread wider without him even meaning to move them, and Jaskier strokes and rubs inside him and it's just—it's so—

It's barely any time at all before he's coming again with a stifled moan, and this time—this time feels better. This time it makes the burning soften and the tension leave his body, and he slumps against the table. 

"You could've woken me up," Jaskier says. 

Geralt grunts. Jaskier curls his fingers inside him, and Geralt _groans_. 

"You could've," Jaskier says, then goes to his knees and starts kissing Geralt's stomach. Geralt puts a shaking hand on the back of his head. Jaskier pulls his pants down properly and puts his mouth on his cock. Geralt makes a noise he doesn't mean to make, thin and desperate, and Jaskier lets him fuck his mouth. 

_Encourages_ him to fuck his mouth, even. 

"Jaskier," he manages, not even meaning to say it, and Jaskier hums, mouth vibrating around his cock. Geralt starts fucking himself with his fingers again, too urgent and too needy, and Jaskier matches his pace with his own. Geralt feels desperate and foolish and _wanting_ , and Jaskier seems just fine with that. 

He knows it's too much, knows he's being too demanding, but . . . 

"Knot me," he chokes, and Jaskier leans back to stroke his own cock to hardness, and Geralt gets up and kicks off his pants and bends over the table. He won't have to look at Jaskier, this way. 

Jaskier won't be looking at _him_ this way. 

Jaskier stands up and guides his cock into him, and Geralt grips the table as it slides home _perfectly_ , like it's always belonged in him, like it always _should_ belong in him. 

"You're so— _impossible_ ," Jaskier grits out. That's right, Geralt thinks. He wants too much. Wants things that are impossible. "What am I here for, Geralt?" 

"I don't know," Geralt says, because the question's so unexpected he can't help but let the truth slip out. Jaskier makes an indignant noise, then a frustrated one. 

_"You,"_ he says. "That's what I'm here for. Don't just let me sleep when you need me." 

"I was fine," Geralt rasps, his voice hitching as Jaskier thrusts a little harder. 

"You _needed me_ ," Jaskier says. He puts his hands over the back of Geralt's and squeezes. Geralt nearly bites his tongue. 

"I was fine," he manages again, and Jaskier makes that frustrated noise again too and snaps his hips into him. Geralt clutches harder at the table. 

"It's heat," Jaskier says. "If you need me, I want to be there. Even if you _don't_ need me." 

"I didn't," Geralt says. 

"That’s—fine," Jaskier says. He snaps his hips in tighter, and Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s fine. But I still want to _be there_.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He doesn’t have a better answer. He doesn’t think there is one. 

Jaskier kisses the back of his neck, right where a mating bite would go, and Geralt _shudders_. 

“Don’t,” he croaks. Jaskier squeezes his hands. 

“I won’t,” he says. “I told you. Not if you don’t ask me.” 

Geralt thinks he hates him for saying that. For implying that he ever _would_. He almost wants to ask for it, just to prove to them both how full of shit he is right now. 

He doesn’t want to ask for it. 

Jaskier kisses his neck again, and Geralt tenses. He’d meant—he didn’t want to be kissed there, he’d meant. 

Obviously Jaskier wouldn’t want to bite him. 

Obviously. 

He doesn’t clarify, though, and Jaskier mouths gently at his neck and then drops a kiss on the back of his shoulder that makes him shudder for no good reason, except for that it’s _Jaskier_. He should tell him to stop, but he doesn’t, and Jaskier keeps fucking him, keeps laying soft little kisses on his skin, keeps _being there_. 

Geralt can’t handle this. 

It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s just like any other heat partner, it’s _fine_. Jaskier will treat him like this now and tomorrow morning he’ll be back to normal, like they’d never touched each other at all. All Geralt has to do is not do anything stupid in the meantime. 

It’s _fine_. 

“So sweet,” Jaskier says, and Geralt grits his teeth. 

“I don’t need platitudes,” he bites off harshly. Jaskier nuzzles the back of his neck, the bastard. 

“It’s not,” he says. “I mean it. You’re so sweet. Downright lovely.” 

“Shut up,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s a liar, just like with all his made-up songs. Geralt doesn’t want to hear it. 

It _aches_ , hearing it. That’s the kind of thing alphas say to other omegas. Not him. 

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he kisses the back of his neck again and fucks him harder and Geralt bites his tongue near to the blood. He thinks he hates him. Right now he _wants_ to hate him. It’d be easier. 

So much easier. 

“Jaskier,” he says, not meaning to say anything. “Jaskier, _Jaskier_.” 

Jaskier puts a hand on his hip and fucks him even harder, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Geralt curses at him; can’t help it. It feels _good_ , and he wishes it didn’t. Wishes Jaskier would stop, and never stop, and kiss him again, and never kiss him again. Wishes that—wishes—

He doesn’t wish anything. 

He _doesn’t_. 

Jaskier is making noises against his back, his head dipped low. Geralt is just trying to stand it. Jaskier snakes a hand underneath him and gets his fingers on his cock, and it just takes a few strokes before Geralt’s coming again. He doesn’t know if he’s ever come so easily as Jaskier’s been making him. It’s not—it’s not right. It’s not _safe_. 

He doesn’t even know what he means by that. 

What _does_ he mean by that? 

_“Geralt,”_ Jaskier gasps out as he comes, pressing his forehead between his shoulder blades. Geralt locks around him reflexively, clutching down on his knot, and Jaskier moans loudly. No surprise that he’s loud, really. Geralt almost wishes he were louder. 

He doesn’t know why he wants that either. 

He wants too many things right now, like he always does in heat. Wants things no one can give him. Wants things no one _wants_ to give him. Just _wants_. 

It’s always too much. 

“Good?” Jaskier says hopefully, smoothing a hand over the back of his neck. 

“Fine,” Geralt grunts, realizing he’s regretting this position already. It’s not the most ideal way he’s ever been knotted. He pushes himself up on his elbows and Jaskier wraps his arms around his waist and presses his mouth against the back of his neck again, which might be even worse. “Why do you keep _doing_ that?” 

“Doing what?” Jaskier asks. 

“Touching me,” Geralt says. “There.” 

“Should I stop?” Jaskier asks, and that’s the question, isn’t it. Geralt grits his teeth before the “no” can slip out, but can’t seem to force out a “yes” either. Jaskier slides a hand up his stomach, waiting for an answer. Geralt can’t find one. “Geralt?” 

Geralt just . . . doesn’t know what to say. 

So he says nothing, and Jaskier does nothing; keeps his arms around him, but loosely, and doesn't speak. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his silence. For once in his life he feels like he should fill it, but . . . 

He doesn't. He shouldn't. 

He's so tired, he thinks, closing his eyes and letting his head slump forward. He never should've gotten out of bed to begin with. 

That's why he misses Jaskier's mouth against his neck, he tells himself. He's tired, and heat is making him stupid. That's all. 

Heat always makes him stupid. 

Jaskier pulls his softening knot out of him, and Geralt hisses at the loss of it, his fingers curling against the table. Come and slick drip out of him and he grimaces, and Jaskier wipes it all away with a soft cloth and softer hands, which makes Geralt stiffen. He straightens up, jaw locked against whatever his mouth might try to say, and Jaskier puts a hand on the small of his back, lightly. 

"Nest?" Jaskier suggests as quietly as Geralt's ever heard him say anything, and Geralt . . . goes. 

He doesn't know what else to do. 

He strips off his shirt and lays down in the nest and turns his face into the blankets, and Jaskier strokes a hand through the loose tangle of his hair. 

"May I come in, omega?" he asks. 

"No," Geralt says, just to see what he'll do. Jaskier hums in disappointment, but keeps stroking his hair. He doesn't come in. 

Geralt's so tired. How is he supposed to do this? How is he supposed to let Jaskier touch him like this, make him _feel_ like this, and then go back to normal? 

He never should've let him in the cottage. Should've shut him out and told him to go find a room to rent until his heat was over. But he did let him in, and now the place smells like he _belongs_ here, and . . . 

Jaskier draws his fingers through his hair again. Geralt bites the inside of his cheek. 

He doesn't know what to do. 

Jaskier keeps stroking his hair, and Geralt catches him by the wrist and squeezes tightly. 

"Should I stop?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt closes his eyes and just . . . exhales. 

"You talk too much," he says, and drags the other into the nest. Jaskier lands on top of him with a surprised noise, and Geralt shifts to cradle the other's body with his own. He misses his cock again already, but it's too soon to ask for it. Humans only have so much stamina, and alphas less than omegas on top of that. He can't expect Jaskier to keep up with his hormones. 

"I just want to do what you want," Jaskier says, which—he's an alpha, of course he'd say that. Alphas always want to do what an omega wants, right up until it's not worth it. 

It's been not worth it pretty quickly, in all of Geralt's experiences. 

"I don't need you worrying about what I want, I just need you knotting me when my heat spikes," he says irritably. "That's it." 

"That's very hard to do, you realize," Jaskier says. He braces a hand against the mattress and lifts the other to smooth Geralt's hair back out of his face. Geralt turns his head away, and Jaskier hesitates, then drops his hand back to the mattress. 

"I know," Geralt bites off. He _knows_ he asks for too much. He's doing his best not to, dammit. "Just—do what I ask, Jaskier. Tomorrow this will all be over and you'll never have to worry about it again." 

"Never?" Jaskier says. 

"Yes," Geralt says. He won't let himself get caught out like this again. Won't be so stupid again. 

"Mm," Jaskier says, a strange expression on his face. Geralt grits his teeth, trying not to think about how easy the other could slide his cock back into him, how good it'd feel, how it'd open him up and—

He inhales. Exhales. Breathes. 

It's fine. This is fine. He doesn't need it again yet, he can fucking _wait_. 

"What if I want to worry about it again?" Jaskier says. All Geralt's thinking about is getting him inside him again, and it takes him a moment to actually register what he's said. 

"What?" he says blankly, staring at the other in confusion. Jaskier flushes, then looks guilty. 

"Nothing. Sorry," he says. "That's not something to talk about when you're in heat." 

"Heat isn't?" Geralt says. 

"No, I mean—" Jaskier struggles for a moment, then just shakes his head. Geralt can feel their bodies pressing together and it's so, so hard not to grab his cock. Jaskier isn't even hard. "I want to help. That's all." 

"Fine," Geralt says. He doesn't understand. That's what Jaskier's already doing. 

"I mean I _always_ want to help," Jaskier says. Geralt . . . pauses. 

"What does that mean," he says. It's not quite a question, but it's definitely a question. 

"It means whatever you want it to," Jaskier says. "Anything you want." 

Geralt tenses, clenching his jaw. Jaskier looks down at him, expression . . . _soft_ , Geralt wants to call it, except he really doesn't want to call it that. He wants it to be anything but that. 

Jaskier lays a hand on his chest, fingers curling against it. Geralt doesn't want anything. He wants everything. 

He wants Jaskier to stop looking at him like that and _fuck_ him. 

"Well?" Jaskier asks after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. "What _do_ you want, Geralt?" 

"Your knot," Geralt says, like an impatient idiot. Jaskier's expression flickers. 

"I can do that," he says quietly. Geralt wants to tell him he doesn't have to yet, that he can wait, but . . . 

But he doesn't, he supposes. 

That's all. He could, but he doesn't. 

Jaskier kisses the corner of his jaw and smooths his hand down his chest and stomach to his cock, and Geralt groans as he reaches it. Jaskier strokes it, and he buries his face in the other's shoulder because it's better than looking him in the eye. He feels immediately overheated again, and the ache of emptiness between his thighs is a painful thing. He grabs onto Jaskier without quite meaning to and then can't bring himself to let go. Jaskier mouths down his throat to his collarbone, and Geralt tips his head back on his neck, panting. Jaskier feels so _good_. His mouth, his hands, every part of him. 

"Jaskier," he stutters roughly, pushing up into the other's hand and mouth. "Jaskier, Jaskier, _ah_ —" 

"I'm here," Jaskier says, nuzzling his collarbone and then biting down his chest; stroking his cock with languid efficiency. Geralt could come again so easily, he already knows, and it's easy to grind into Jaskier's hand and dig his nails into his back. Easy to just think about how it feels, and nothing else. Easy to be _easy_ , and not think past that. 

Thinking is the last thing Geralt wants to do right now. 

"Jaskier," he says again, and _"Jaskier."_

"I'm here," Jaskier repeats. He strokes him harder. Geralt tries to stop thinking. He's in _heat_ , it should be _easy_ to stop thinking. 

It's not. He clings tighter to Jaskier, maybe too tight, and Jaskier mouths at his chest and strokes his cock just right and makes him come. He feels better, almost, but there's still a _fire_ in him. Still that bit of too much. 

He whines, and Jaskier ducks down low and puts his mouth around his cock. Geralt fumbles at him, his hands slipping off his shoulders and then coming to rest on the back of his head. Jaskier makes an encouraging noise and lets him fuck up into his mouth. Geralt does, probably harder than he should, but Jaskier doesn't complain or pull away. Geralt feels hot, stifled and aching, and he wants _more_. 

He hates heat so fucking much. 

Jaskier makes him come again, and Geralt collapses against the bed, panting for breath. Jaskier looks up at him and licks his lips, and Geralt moans at the sight alone. 

"So pretty," Jaskier husks, smoothing his hands up his thighs. Geralt bares his teeth at the lie, but only weakly. He's still shuddering through his aftershocks, and it's hard to do anything else. "I like touching you so much. You feel so good." 

"Shut up, Jaskier," Geralt grits out. Jaskier pushes his mouth into his hip; digs his fingers into his thighs. He keeps looking at Geralt's face, but he doesn't say anything. 

Geralt doesn't know if he likes that or not. 

Geralt doesn't know . . . too many damn things. 

He exhales, raggedly, and drops his hands away from Jaskier's head. Jaskier makes a soft noise, but still doesn't say anything. Geralt strokes a hand back over his hair, half-apologetic. Jaskier's just trying to be a good alpha. He just . . . doesn't know better. 

"You don't have to say that kind of thing to me," Geralt murmurs. "Alright?" 

"Why not?" Jaskier says, sounding frustrated. "I just want to treat you right." 

"I'm a witcher," Geralt says. Other omegas might be able to hear that kind of thing and appreciate it, but it's something he'll never have, and he just . . . 

He'll never have it. He doesn't want to pretend like he could. 

"So?" Jaskier says with a frown, and Geralt . . . sighs. 

"Witchers don't get that," he says, like it's not fucking _obvious_. 

"Don't get heats with people being _nice_ to them?" Jaskier asks incredulously. 

"Yes," Geralt says, though really it's so much more than just that. Witchers don't get treated like that. Witchers don't get steady heat partners or taken care of. Witchers don't get . . . _nice_. 

Or at least, he doesn't. 

"You're killing me, Geralt," Jaskier says. "Really, you are. You deserve _nice_ , for shit's sake." 

"Mm," Geralt says. 

"I mean it!" 

He does, probably. Pity doesn't help, though; doesn't mean anything. It's just pity. 

Geralt doesn't need pity, even in heat. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says, crawling up him so they're face to face. Geralt immediately wants his cock in him. "Surely, once, in a _hundred_ years, someone's taken care of you." 

"Yes," Geralt says neutrally. Jaskier pounces on the answer. 

"Then why won't you believe I want to?" he demands. 

"Because it was once," Geralt says. "And then they left me on the side of the road to become a witcher." 

". . . I thought they made witchers from children," Jaskier says slowly. 

"Yes," Geralt says. 

_"Geralt."_

"It's fine," Geralt says. "Just—you don't have to say things like that to me." 

"You're an idiot!" Jaskier hisses. He shifts, and Geralt is all too aware of the other's cock against his body. It's soft, mostly; more's the pity. He tries to pay attention to what Jaskier's saying, but . . . "Oh, what am I doing, you're not even listening to me. Do I have to fuck you to get your attention?" 

"Yes," Geralt lies. Jaskier scowls. 

"Fine," he says, and slides a hand between them to slip his fingers inside him. Geralt barely bites back a cry, and the practiced way Jaskier thrusts his fingers inside him hardly helps him do it. "You're determined to be difficult, well, I can be difficult too. And don't give me that _witcher_ nonsense again, I refuse to believe _every_ witcher treats themselves so poorly." 

"Jaskier," Geralt pants, bringing a hand up to bite the back of his wrist. He's still too empty. He needs a _knot_. 

"I'm going to make you come," Jaskier informs him, twisting his fingers inside him. "And then I'm going to fuck you 'til you come again, and _maybe_ then I'll stop." 

"Please," Geralt manages, useless and senseless. Jaskier fucks his fingers in faster and puts his other hand on his cock, and he _moans_. It's not easy, but fuck, it's so _much_. 

"Okay?" Jaskier says. 

"Okay," Geralt chokes. 

Jaskier fucks his hole and strokes his cock and leans over him to kiss his chest, and Geralt aches and moans and _shudders_ with it, lets it overtake him as much as he can, and tries to keep himself from saying anything stupid. 

There's too much he _could_ say, so he doesn't say any of it. 

Fuck, this is . . . 

Geralt bites down on his wrist again and Jaskier drags his teeth across his chest and curls his fingers inside him and Geralt aches, and aches, and _aches_ —

"I've got you," Jaskier rumbles, just the barest traces of alpha in his tone, and his voice makes Geralt so _wet_. 

"Jaskier," he moans, and hates himself for moaning, and Jaskier mouths at his chest and fucks him harder and strokes him faster and oh, oh, _oh_ —

Geralt comes, because Jaskier makes it easy, and he comes with a low, carrying groan that fills up the cottage. Jaskier purrs, and Geralt shudders at the sound of it. 

What kind of alpha _purrs_ , anyway? 

And how does Jaskier make it sound so good when he does? 

It's so good. 

"Good?" Jaskier checks, and Geralt nods helplessly. Jaskier moves up over him and guides his cock inside his slick and oversensitive hole and Geralt fucking _whines_ for it, his thighs falling open wide. He wants Jaskier in as deep as he can get. "Oh, so sweet. Aren't you being good to me." 

"I'm not," Geralt tries to say, though it comes out rasping and strangled because Jaskier chooses that moment to _move_ , fuck. 

"Not what?" Jaskier asks distractedly, pushing one of his thighs up as he thrusts into him again. Geralt presses back into the bed with another groan. "Not sweet? Not good? You are. Don't make me write a song about it, I'm not above that." 

"I will _kill_ you if you try," Geralt growls. He's pretty sure he already made that clear. 

"Still?" Jaskier huffs. "I'm not fucking you good enough, clearly." 

"Jaskier," Geralt hisses sharply, and Jaskier rolls his hips into him and he _curses_. "Ah!" 

"There we go," Jaskier says smugly, and then keeps fucking _doing_ it. Geralt keeps cursing, grabbing at his back and digging his nails in. Jaskier purrs at him again, the bastard. " _So_ sweet. And don't complain about it, alright, I am a damn _connoisseur_ of fine omegas and I should know. I am the expert in this nest." 

"You're a fucking _child_ ," Geralt growls, and Jaskier hums an unfamiliar melody in not-quite-reply, which does _not_ sound like not writing a song about this, damn him. 

"Don't make it weird, old man," he says, smoothing a hand up his side. 

"That is _not_ what I meant!" Geralt snaps, and Jaskier laughs softly and ducks his head for a moment, so Geralt isn't prepared for the sudden _softness_ in his expression when he lifts it again. His throat tightens, and something clenches in his chest. 

"You make me want to keep you," Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt could really fucking kill him. 

"I said stop saying things you don't mean," he hisses. 

"What if I did?" Jaskier says. "If I kept you, and made sure you smelled like mine." 

Geralt growls at him. Jaskier strokes his thigh and rolls his hips in tighter, so Geralt's breath hitches. 

"Then I could do this every heat," Jaskier says. "I'd make you a nest and knot you in it as many times as you liked." 

"You can't knot me that many times," Geralt says through gritted teeth. 

"Well, maybe I really _would_ invite Yennefer, then," Jaskier says speculatively, and Geralt shudders painfully. He needs to shut Jaskier up. He needs to fucking _gag_ him. "But I'd do my best in the meantime." 

"Just _fuck_ me," Geralt rasps. 

"No intention of stopping, my dear," Jaskier says, and Geralt— _grimaces_ , and puts a hand over the other's mouth. No one's ever called him an endearment like that in his _life_ , unless they were mocking him. He thinks Yennefer's as good as allergic to them, and otherwise . . . 

No, no one's ever called him anything like that. 

Jaskier kisses his palm, which isn't what he was expecting, and Geralt reclaims his hand. 

"Don't call me that," he says. 

"Alright," Jaskier says. "What about 'my sweet'? 'Darling'?" 

_"Nothing,"_ Geralt bites off roughly. 

"Oh, no, I'd never call you _nothing_ , Geralt," Jaskier says lightly. He snaps his hips in tighter again and Geralt grits his teeth. "You're just about everything, in fact." 

"I hate you," Geralt lies. 

"I adore you," Jaskier _definitely_ lies. "You're wonderful. So brave and so strong, I can hardly even—" 

"Shut _up_!" Geralt spits. Jaskier sighs, and fucks him harder. It doesn’t help, except it really does. 

"I don't want to shut up," Jaskier says. "I want to tell you things." 

"Then quit _fucking_ lying," Geralt snaps. 

"Maybe you could just start believing me?" Jaskier says. "You're not an _audience_ , Geralt, I'm not trying to earn coin here." 

Geralt growls at him in frustration and moves his thighs to squeeze his sides and flip them over, landing on top of Jaskier with a jarring thud. Jaskier yelps; Geralt hisses, grinding down into his lap. Jaskier’s cock slipped out of him when he was flipping them, but it’s easy to grab and sit down on it. Jaskier curses. Geralt _moans_. He takes the other to the root, enough so he _almost_ feels full enough, and clutches up needily around him. 

“ _Really_ , Geralt—” Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt braces his hands on the other’s stomach and fucks himself ruthlessly on his cock. He needs knotted. He needs Jaskier to come in him. 

He _wants_ —

Geralt inhales. Exhales. Breathes. He rides Jaskier’s cock and curls his fingers on Jaskier’s stomach and doesn’t say a word to him. 

Jaskier keeps being Jaskier, though. 

“Oh, oh, _oh_ , Geralt, that’s so good,” he gasps out breathlessly, grabbing Geralt’s thighs and squeezing them tight; lifting his hips up into him. “You are _impossible_ to talk to but that feels so good, hell, I _mean_ it. You’re _perf_ —” 

Geralt slaps a hand over Jaskier’s mouth before the other can finish the word and bares his teeth at him furiously. 

“Come in me,” he snarls, clenching down tight around his growing knot. _“Now.”_

Jaskier chokes, and comes. Geralt doesn’t have to do a damn thing. Jaskier’s come fills him up and his knot rubs him just right, fat and thick and exactly what he wanted, and he feels . . . settled, almost, almost like he’s back in his skin. Almost. 

So close. 

“Perfect,” Jaskier rasps, and puts a hand on Geralt’s cock, and just— _rubs_ , just once, and then Geralt’s coming too and Jaskier’s working him through it. Geralt hisses, squeezing his eyes shut and his body tight, and Jaskier groans. “Oh, _Geralt_.” 

He makes it sound like an endearment. 

“Hn,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier reaches up and cups his face in his hands and tugs him down to be kissed. Geralt lets him, because . . . he lets him. 

Liar. Such a liar. 

He wants, so badly, to . . . 

Geralt throws himself into the kiss and Jaskier meets him in kind, hungry and desperate even in the aftershocks of orgasm. Jaskier’s breathing heavily, his eyes hooded, and Geralt wants to bite him. 

Wants . . . 

He kisses him again. Jaskier throws his arms around his neck and kisses back. It’s easier than . . . anything else. Easier than things Geralt can’t think about wanting. 

Easy. 

“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” Jaskier is mumbling between kisses, _into_ kisses, and Geralt can’t even stop long enough to answer him, his hands all over the other. He wants to be kissed, he wants _this_ , he wants things he can’t think about wanting, and it’s all much, much too much. “It’s alright, it’s alright, I have you.” 

_“Liar,”_ Geralt chokes out, because he is, and Jaskier clings to him. 

“Not to you,” he swears. “Never to you.” 

Geralt feels like he could fucking _sob_ , something painful caught in his throat, but he isn’t a witcher for nothing. He swallows, and steadies himself, and he turns his face away when Jaskier tries to kiss him again. 

He just needs the knot. All the rest of this . . . this is just lies. Tricks. Pretend. 

An illusion. 

Jaskier kisses his cheek, and then his jaw, and then his throat. He tangles a hand in his hair and pushes the other down his back and across his scars like they’re not even there. He stays close, even though he doesn’t need to. Geralt could shove him down again, break away from his hands and kisses, but he doesn’t. He could do a lot of things he doesn’t do. 

“I have you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere until you tell me otherwise.” 

“Prove it,” Geralt says, because he’s so tired of it. Jaskier’s just saying what he thinks he wants to hear, and he’s not even _wrong_. Geralt . . . he does want to hear those things. He wants to hear them so badly that hearing them _hurts_. 

Admitting that hurts even worse. 

“How?” Jaskier says. “What do you want?” 

“Figure it out, bard,” Geralt sneers, baring his teeth at him. There’s nothing. Nothing Jaskier could possibly do or say. Nothing that would prove a thing. 

“Ask me,” Jaskier says, stroking his hair back out of his eyes, searching his face for . . . something. Whatever it is, Geralt doesn’t have it. 

He doesn’t even know what Jaskier’s talking about. 

“No,” he says, and frustration flickers at the corners of Jaskier’s expression. He strokes his hair again. He tightens the arm around his back. Geralt just . . . lets him. It’s not real, but it feels good. 

Painful, but good. 

“Haven’t I been around long enough yet?” Jaskier says. “You’ve known me since I was _eighteen_. Where in there did you get the idea I’d ever leave you?” 

“You will,” Geralt says dully. Everyone leaves. That’s how it is. Jaskier’s free to go when and wherever he likes, and Geralt has nothing worth coming back for. 

That’s how it feels, anyway. 

Fuck, he hates heat. 

“Not unless you tell me to go,” Jaskier says firmly. “Or, well, unless I die horribly on one of these monster hunts, that’s its own possibility.” 

“You won’t,” Geralt says, tensing at the thought. He won’t let that happen. 

“I know,” Jaskier says too-tenderly, cupping his face in his hands again and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Geralt grabs his wrists, but can’t bring himself to pull his hands away. “Oh, Geralt. Just let me. Please.” 

“I can’t,” Geralt grits out. Even if he wanted to—and he _does_ want to. He does. He wants to let Jaskier do all the things other alphas do for other omegas and say all those sweet things and make all the promises he likes. 

But he can’t. 

“Why not?” Jaskier says. “What, am I going to run off on you? I’m a bard. We do that. I’ll be back. Hell, you’re usually the one running off on _me_.” 

“I know,” Geralt says. He doesn’t want to run off on Jaskier. He just—he has to, sometimes. He did it to Yennefer, he does it to Jaskier, he does it all the time. He has to. 

“I’m here,” Jaskier says, then kisses him again. Geralt . . . kisses back. Slowly. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind. He puts one hand on Geralt’s chest and strokes the other through his hair, and Geralt puts his own on the other’s hips, lost for what else to do with them. 

They kiss until Jaskier’s knot goes down, and then Jaskier cleans them both up before they can get too unfortunately sticky, and then they lay in the nest together, waiting for the next spike of Geralt’s heat. There’s more coming, he knows. He’s never lucky enough to have short heats, no matter who partners him or how. 

Jaskier drapes an arm across his stomach and lays his head on his chest, and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with him. 

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks, glancing up at him. “Or would you prefer the other way around?” 

Geralt almost laughs at him. He’s not the kind of omega people cuddle up to. He’s definitely not the kind of omega who people let lie on them like _that_. Jaskier’s already an outlier for being willing to lay this close next to him without getting paid for it. Even Yennefer doesn’t do that. 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, because the rest of it’s too much, and Jaskier hums and traces aimless patterns on his stomach. The heat in it is just banked embers right now, but at the touch of Jaskier’s hand, Geralt could swear he _feels_ them glow. 

“Good,” Jaskier says. “I like being close to you.” 

Geralt really could laugh, if he let himself. Instead he sighs and rests a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier purrs quietly against his chest. Geralt tries not to read too much into . . . any of this. Jaskier is just feeling lazy and warm and wants to share the feeling, clearly. He isn't . . . he doesn’t . . . 

Geralt hides his face in Jaskier’s hair, and concentrates on breathing. Since that means he’s smelling nothing but Jaskier, it doesn’t really help. Jaskier gives a soft, approving rumble and shifts in closer against his side. Geralt wouldn’t have thought they could get any closer, but Jaskier figures out a way. 

He lifts his other hand, hesitantly, and sets it on Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier _purrs_ , wrapping his arm around his stomach again and squeezing tight. Geralt . . . exhales. 

It feels good. 

He doesn’t think about it past that. 

It’s not long before the heat in his gut starts intensifying again, though, and he bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stave off the feeling. Jaskier wants to do this, and probably needs the recovery time besides. He can wait. 

Another benefit of that scent-masking potion: Jaskier can’t smell his heat spiking. Geralt can hold out as long as he likes, and Jaskier won’t know the difference. 

That’s something, at least. 

They lay there for a while, Jaskier basking in the afterglow and Geralt counting the minutes until he can reasonably expect the other to touch him again. Being an omega in heat is brutal; being a _witcher_ omega in heat . . . 

He can’t expect Jaskier to keep up with that, no, no matter how much the other might want to try. 

He manages not to squirm or shudder or anything too damning, at least, and keeps as much tension out of his body as he can so Jaskier won’t feel it. He can do that. He can be patient. He can—

“How’s your heat?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt has to either grit his teeth or immediately beg to be fucked, and he isn’t willing to beg. 

“Fine,” he manages. Jaskier peers up at him. He strokes a hand across his chest, and Geralt has to grit his teeth again. 

“I should be timing you, really,” Jaskier says musingly. “You’ll never tell me yourself.” 

“What?” Geralt manages, and Jaskier rolls on top of him and starts kissing his chest. Geralt moans, body jerking without his permission. “You can’t—it’s too soon,” he barely manages to get out, already panting, and Jaskier hums around one of his nipples. “You can’t fuck me yet.” 

“You’re right, but there _is_ a trick or two we could try,” Jaskier says. 

“What?” Geralt says, and Jaskier lifts his head so he’s practically breathing in his ear. 

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs in his alpha voice, and Geralt nearly comes right there. He doesn’t think he’s ever gotten a hand on his cock so quick. “Yes, just like that. Just how you like.” 

“Mm!” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, and Jaskier—he keeps talking, and he doesn’t let the alpha leave his voice for even a moment. 

“Good,” Jaskier says. “Take your time about it. There’s no rush.” 

Geralt fucking _aches_. He touches himself slowly, like Jaskier wants, and Jaskier hums a few pretty little notes and then keeps talking. 

“That’s right,” he says, stroking a hand across Geralt’s chest, putting his mouth against his throat. “You’re being so good to me, Geralt.” 

It still sounds like a damn endearment, somehow. 

“Not doing anything to you,” he grunts, and Jaskier lets out a low laugh. Even that sounds like there’s alpha in it. 

“You’re doing enough,” Jaskier says. “Put your fingers inside yourself.” 

Geralt does, obviously, and shudders. Jaskier hums again; strokes his chest again. 

“How does it feel?” he says. “With all my come in there.” 

“Wet,” Geralt says, and Jaskier grins at him. 

“That’s _you_ ,” he says, and Geralt has to bite the inside of his cheek again. It _is_ him. He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this wet, and the more Jaskier talks the worse it gets, slick and come dripping down past his fingers and over his hand. It’s heat, so of course he’s wet, but with Jaskier talking like that, it’s just . . . “You’re so wet I could just slide on in, knot and all, and you’d take every last inch of me no problem. If Yennefer were here I bet you could take us both at once.” 

“Ngh!” Geralt chokes, his eyes flaring, and Jaskier kisses his throat. 

“But Yennefer's not here. So wet, and all for me,” he murmurs. “I love it, Geralt.” 

Like it’s a fucking—a _present_ or something. Like it’s some kind of _gift_ , something Geralt went out of his way to give him. 

When Jaskier says it, though, it really does feel that way. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaks, and Jaskier kisses his throat again and smooths his hand down his stomach. 

“Come for me, Geralt,” he says, and it takes very, very little effort to obey. Geralt comes with a jerk and a strangled almost-cry and then just slumps back into the bed, dazed, and Jaskier kisses up his throat and strokes his skin and hair, and Geralt shudders again and again under the contact. 

That was . . . easy. Too easy. 

He doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

“Was that alright?” Jaskier asks as he shifts to the side and lays down beside him again. “I’ve had partners who liked it before, so I thought maybe . . . I mean, I’m actually not even sure alpha voices _work_ on witchers, come to think, it was just the first thing I thought of.” 

“Alpha voices work on witchers,” Geralt says roughly, and Jaskier brightens. 

“Oh!” he says. “Good.” 

“Hn,” Geralt grunts, covering his eyes with an arm as he forces his breathing to get back in order, and Jaskier drops a kiss against his shoulder. It’s a sweet little thing; another illusion. Something else he can’t really have. 

“Do you want knotted?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt forgets everything he was thinking about. 

“Can you?” he says, dropping his arm away to look at the other again. 

“Spirit’s willing, at least,” Jaskier says, flashing him a grin. “So is that a yes?” 

Obviously it is. Geralt rolls onto his stomach and tilts his hips up very unsubtly, and Jaskier turns red, his grin widening. 

“As to the point as ever,” he says, pushing himself up to lean over him. He sweeps Geralt’s hair aside and kisses his spine, and Geralt grunts impatiently. Jaskier promised him a _knot_. “Mmm, so greedy. I love it.” 

Geralt says nothing to that. What alpha would actually _like_ an omega that can’t be satisfied? It fucks with their instincts, makes them feel like they’ve failed to take care of their partner when it’s just that Geralt’s damned body can’t calm down. 

Alphas don’t like that, obviously, and he can’t blame them. He doesn’t like feeling like a failure of an omega, so why would they like the reverse? 

And it’s a lot easier for them not to have that problem. Geralt can’t get away from himself, but everyone else can. 

Jaskier runs a hand up his side and kisses up the back of his neck, and Geralt digs his fingers into the quilts underneath them. It’s not enough. 

“Get in me,” he demands, and yes, he knows he’s asking for too much but Jaskier _said_ —

“So impatient,” Jaskier says, kissing his neck again. “I’ll be in you soon enough. Fuck, it’s a shame I’m not in rut.” 

“You still wouldn’t be able to keep up,” Geralt says. Besides, the chances of that ever happening are slim. Only mated pairs’ cycles match up. It’d be a complete accident if theirs ever did. 

He wonders what Jaskier’s like in rut. He hasn’t been around too many rutting alphas, but . . . 

“Rude!” Jaskier says with a huff, slipping a hand underneath his body and over his cock. Geralt snarls at him. “ _Very_ rude. Where’s the gratitude, I ask you.” 

_“Jaskier,”_ Geralt snaps, and Jaskier nuzzles his neck and strokes his cock and Geralt doesn’t forgive him, exactly, but—”Ah!” 

“You make such lovely noises,” Jaskier says musingly. Geralt can feel his cock against his ass. It’s not _in_ him, and that makes him snarl again. 

“Maybe if you _were_ rutting, you’d be doing your damn _job_ ,” he says. 

“Is that all I’m good for, Geralt?” Jaskier says. “Just my knot?” 

“It’s not _in_ me so how would I know?” Geralt growls. 

“Rude,” Jaskier says again, and then he does push his cock into him and any retort Geralt might’ve had flies right out of his head. It doesn’t matter, anyway, as long as Jaskier’s fucking him. Jaskier thrusts in; pulls back out. He’s slow about it, but he thrusts as deep as he can. Geralt feels his growing knot pop into and out of him, and buries a strangled noise in the quilts. 

“Please,” he says, not meaning to say anything. 

“Ah, _there’s_ your manners,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Wouldn’t leave you now, would I?” 

“Right,” Geralt says, although of course he would. People leave whenever the hell they feel like it. Jaskier’s no different. 

He thinks he’d never fucking forgive him if he left right now, though. He thinks he’d fucking _hate_ him if he left right now. 

“Right,” Jaskier agrees, putting his hands on his hips to adjust the angle and somehow managing to sink in even deeper. Or at least, it feels like he has. “Oh, you’re still so tight. And you’re _so_ wet. Beautiful.” 

“Shut up,” Geralt says. He never wants to hear that word out of the other’s mouth again. Jaskier huffs. 

“You are,” he says, _alpha_ in his voice, and Geralt snarls back at him angrily. It’s not fair to say it like that. If he says it like _that_ —

Geralt could almost believe it, when he says it like that. 

“This is not a thing I’d lie to you about, Geralt,” Jaskier says, bending low over his back and kissing his spine again, rolling his hips in tight. Geralt’s shoulders slump, and he bites the inside of his cheek. There are scars on his back. Jaskier acts like they’re not even there. Usually people avoid them, or trace them deliberately. Jaskier just _ignoring_ them makes him feel . . . strange. 

He doesn’t know what it makes him feel. 

He doesn’t know a lot of what Jaskier makes him feel, except for the dangerous things. 

“Believe me,” Jaskier murmurs. He trails his hands up Geralt’s ribs and cups his pecs, and Geralt grunts. He can’t find anything to say. He remembers earlier, when he’d practically thrown Jaskier off him, when he’d yelled at him, and can’t believe the other has the patience for this. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be a good alpha, but every alpha has a line, and Geralt’s not sure how close he is to Jaskier’s. 

He doesn’t want to find out. 

Jaskier kisses the back of his neck again. Geralt tries not to shudder, but it’s a lost cause. He pushes his chest into Jaskier’s hands and digs his fingers into the bed and doesn’t say anything, still. He doesn’t know what he could. 

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says. “I’m here.” 

Geralt just . . . he _can’t_ believe him. He wants to, wants to so _badly_ , fucking _aches_ with wanting to, but . . . 

“Ask me, Geralt,” Jaskier says. 

“What?” Geralt rasps, not understanding. Jaskier kisses his neck again; smooths his hands down his stomach and touches his cock; presses his knot in tight and grinds inside him. 

“Ask me,” he says against the back of Geralt’s neck. “And I’ll prove it to you.” 

“You’ll prove it,” Geralt says, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed and stupid, like every heat, and Jaskier nuzzles his neck. 

“I will,” he says. “But you have to ask.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and still can’t find the words. He doesn’t even know what to ask for; doesn’t know what Jaskier could possibly do. It’s not—

“Geralt,” Jaskier rumbles with alpha in his voice, and just barely scrapes his teeth against the back of his neck. Geralt chokes, and _comes_. It tears out of him, unexpected and sudden, and he half-collapses but Jaskier still fucks him through it. 

His teeth don’t leave the back of his neck. It’s not a bite, not enough pressure for that, but Geralt feels shaken and—and _held_ , almost, and . . . and he doesn’t know what. Can’t figure it out. 

“Don’t,” he croaks hoarsely. “Don’t pretend.” 

“I’m not pretending,” Jaskier says against his neck, wrapping a tight arm around his stomach; fucking into him a last few times, until his knot fully swells and he’s come too and Geralt can lock him and almost, _almost_ feels like he’s back in his skin. 

_Liar,_ he wants to say, but what he actually says is much worse. 

“Prove it,” he says, tight and painful, and Jaskier squeezes the arm around his stomach and tugs them both down to their sides and doesn’t prove it, of course, of course he doesn’t, he was never going to, he was never going to and the fact Geralt even _asked_ is—

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck one more time, and then bites down _hard_. 

Geralt makes a noise. It’s not a very dignified noise—it’s shocked, mostly. Jaskier licks across the bite to soothe it, but that doesn’t do anything. Geralt feels like he’s on _fire_. 

“Jaskier,” he chokes, reaching back to grab the other by the back of the neck; holding him close, so his mouth stays pressed to—to— 

To the bite. 

It can’t have been as hard as it felt. It can’t have broken skin. Except he can smell blood, and _feel_ it, and . . . 

“Okay?” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s fingers tighten on the back of his neck. It’s so . . . anti-climatic, almost. Jaskier bit him. Bit him _there_. 

It’d be anti-climatic, except he’s fucking _burning_ from it. 

“Jaskier,” he manages again. Jaskier licks the bite again, and Geralt practically fucking _trembles_. “You bit me.” 

“That’s—you wanted it, right?” Jaskier says, sounding alarmed. “You said—” 

“Prove it,” Geralt breathes, squirming back against the other. He had. He’d said. And Jaskier . . . “No one’s ever . . .” 

“I remember.” Jaskier kisses the bite. “Does it hurt?” 

“Not enough,” Geralt says. He _wants_ it to hurt, he thinks. He wants to know it’s there. 

“Of course not,” Jaskier mutters wryly, and then bites him again, harder this time. Geralt hisses through his teeth, pressing into the other’s. It’s just a bite, he tells himself. It doesn’t mean . . . 

But it does. 

It does mean. 

“Jaskier,” he says again, turning as much as he can to look back at him. and Jaskier kisses him. Without being asked, with the taste of his blood on his lips, without hesitation. Without saying it’s too much, or that _he’s_ too much, or . . . 

“I’m here,” Jaskier says, husky and low, wrapping his arms around him. “I’ve got you.” 

“I know,” Geralt says, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed and _weak_. 

And . . . he does. He knows. 

It’s easy. 

“Touch me,” Geralt says, grabbing one of Jaskier’s hands and pulling it down to his cock, and Jaskier does, and it’s _easy_. Jaskier strokes his cock and kisses the bite on his neck and touches him like he never wants to do anything else, and Geralt shudders and shudders and _shakes_ with it. He’s full of Jaskier’s come and Jaskier’s knot and Jaskier’s mouth is against his neck and it’s so fucking _easy_ , like it’s nothing, like it’s so many things, like he could’ve had this at any moment, just for the asking. 

He could’ve, he realizes. Any time he asked, he could’ve had this. 

“Good?” Jaskier asks quietly, and Geralt nods helplessly. “Good. Will you let me take care of you now?” 

Geralt nods again. Can’t not. Jaskier makes a soft, _pleased_ sound and bites his neck again. He strokes his cock until Geralt is moaning with it, until he's coming on Jaskier's knot, slow and shaky. It's—easy. 

He can't get over how easy it is. 

Jaskier carefully pulls his softened knot out of him, and Geralt can't help the disappointed sound he makes. 

"I've got you," Jaskier promises, then rolls him onto his back and slides down his body to kiss his stomach. Geralt lets him do it, limbs loose and pliant, and Jaskier eats him out until any other alpha would be complaining about how long it's taking him to come, and as soon as Geralt realizes that, he's coming again. Jaskier _purrs_ , sounding smug and satisfied. Geralt throws an arm across his eyes, grunting quietly when the bite on his neck aches gently at the motion. 

Jaskier crawls up his body again and kisses him, just briefly. Geralt doesn't even have time to move his arm before he's gone, a lingering hand left on his chest for just a moment longer. 

"I'm going to get you something to eat," Jaskier says. "Sound good?" 

Geralt grunts, moving his arm to watch the other get up. Jaskier runs a hand up his arm, then steps away to the table. He comes back a moment later with a plate of food and a cup of water, and Geralt accepts them both as the other kisses his hair. It's food he got out himself, expecting Jaskier to eat it, but he feels oddly warm all the same. 

"How do you feel?" Jaskier says. He starts fixing up the little parts of the nest they've rumpled or knocked in, which doesn't seem like a very alpha thing to do but makes Geralt feel warm too. And not in the way where he needs knotted. 

"Fine," Geralt says. There's not really another answer. Jaskier hums, then kisses his hair again. He goes around the cottage, straightening up everything they've displaced. Geralt eats, very aware of the dull pain in the back of his neck. He watches Jaskier. 

Jaskier doesn't seem to notice. Geralt isn't sure how he could miss him staring; it's not subtle. But Jaskier just puts away the uneaten food and cleans up the crumbs on the table and acts . . . domestic, almost. Like he belongs here. 

Like they belong here. 

They don't, not either of them, but Geralt finds he likes it better than an inn or brothel or campsite. 

Maybe that's just Jaskier, though. 

Jaskier makes him feel so many things. 

Geralt finishes eating, and Jaskier comes back for the plate and kisses him again. Geralt melts into it; into the hand the other puts on the back of his neck. Jaskier kisses him deeply, slowly, lingeringly. It feels so sweet. 

"Thank you," Jaskier says, warm and quiet. Geralt doesn't have anything to say back. He can't think of the right words. 

Jaskier kisses him again. Curls his fingers against his neck. Geralt noises softly, leaning into it. It's easy. 

He wants to be kissed more. He wants to be touched more. He wants . . . 

Jaskier keeps kissing him, slow and unhurried. Geralt keeps kissing him back. His gut warms. He doesn't want to come, exactly, but he does miss Jaskier's . . . everything, really. They're _kissing_ , and he still misses him. 

Heat is a bitch like that. 

"How do you feel?" Jaskier says as he regrettably breaks off the kiss. His hand is still on the bite. The bite that he gave him. 

No one's ever done that before. 

It's hard not to think about that. 

"Warm," Geralt says. 

"Makes sense." Jaskier flashes him a wry smile, smoothing his hand down his neck. Geralt closes his eyes. 

"Do it again," he says, and Jaskier repeats the stroke of his hand. That's not what Geralt meant, though. "No," he says. "With your teeth." 

"Oh," Jaskier says, and immediately leans down behind him, brushing his hair out of the way. Geralt's prepared for it, this time, but all the same, when Jaskier's teeth sink in . . . 

He shudders. 

It feels nothing like he'd expected, the few times he'd let himself wonder. He'd just expected it to hurt. But it makes him feel a sense of . . . _belonging_. Like Jaskier will always come back and do it again. 

He knows it's not a permanent thing, really, but it _feels_ that way. It feels like a promise that no one else has so much as implied wanting to make. 

It makes him ache. A good ache. A . . . a _warm_ one, he thinks. 

"Jaskier," he says, and Jaskier hums against his neck and digs his teeth in harder for just a moment before leaning back. 

"Next time I fuck you I want to bite you again," he says. "If you're alright with that." 

"Mm." Geralt hesitates for a moment—that sounds like so _much_ —but nods. It doesn't sound bad, just . . . 

"I don't have to," Jaskier says, brushing a hand through his hair again. Geralt shakes his head, slowly. 

"I'd like that, I think," he murmurs, and Jaskier's face breaks into a smile. 

"Me too," he says. "Definitely." 

Geralt looks at him for a long moment, seeing . . . too many things to separate out, really. Seeing Jaskier, and all that implies. Part of him still can't believe the other bit him at all, and the rest can't quite wrap his head around what it really _means_ , but . . 

But. 

It's such a small thing, such an easy thing, and not small or easy at all. 

"How's your heat?" Jaskier says. 

"Fine," Geralt says. Jaskier strokes his hair; presses a hand to his forehead to check how hot he's running. Geralt . . . doesn't mind it. 

"Good," Jaskier says. "May I come in, omega?" 

"Yes, alpha," Geralt answers quietly, and Jaskier beams at him. He's never called an alpha that in his _life_ , but with Jaskier . . . it fits, with Jaskier. It suits him. 

Jaskier gets back in the nest and lays down on his back, humming contentedly and keeping a hand on Geralt's nape in a way he'd punch just about anyone else for trying. He looks down at him, not sure what to do. 

"Lay down with me?" Jaskier suggests hopefully, and that . . . yes, that sounds good, Geralt thinks. That's a good idea. 

He shifts to lay down beside Jaskier, and Jaskier does . . . _something_ with the hand on his neck, and the next thing Geralt knows his head's on the other's chest, Jaskier's fingers drawing lightly through his hair. 

He . . . blinks. 

"Alright?" Jaskier asks. Geralt would nod, but that might make him move his hand. 

"Alright," he agrees quietly, carefully settling in, and Jaskier hums happily and keeps stroking his hair. It won't be long before his heat comes back and starts demanding things again, but in the meantime . . . 

This is nice, in the meantime. He likes this. 

He doesn't say that, but he hopes Jaskier can tell.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] it’s a long way forward (so trust in me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178362) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)
  * [when you're in my arms, but you've gone somewhere deeper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26888341) by [sprx77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprx77/pseuds/sprx77)




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